Man, Interrupted
by Bits And Pieces
Summary: When tragedy strikes, some men's minds simply snap, leading them to do unspeakable things. How will Hogan and Newkirk survive when they find themselves at the mercy of just such a man? Rated M for dark theme, violence, graphic imagery.
1. A Stormy, Dark Night

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Hogan's Heroes characters, I just like to put them in dire situations. My original characters are completely made up by me, and any resemblance they may have to anyone, real or fictional, is purely coincidental.

* * *

A Stormy, Dark Night

It was a pleasant afternoon that had decided to favor Stalag Thirteen that day; warm for mid-April, despite the strong breeze that gusted through the camp. A few puffs of white dotted the sky above, while off in the distance, a line of grey billowy rain clouds were forming, hovering just over the horizon.

Colonel Robert E. Hogan stood outside Barracks Two, leaning back against the wall with his ankles crossed and his arms folded in front of him, watching a group of men play football in the compound. The sun felt good on his face, and as he drew in a deep breath, the gusty wind circling around him filled his lungs with fresh air, invigorating his spirit. He let out a long sigh and relaxed against the wall, enjoying the rare, peaceful afternoon. Things had been quiet for him and his men the last few days, and he was grateful for the break.

Sergeant James Kinchloe stepped out of the barracks, glanced around the compound and, spotting Hogan, sidled up next to him. "Message from the Underground, sir," he said quietly, and the colonel frowned.

"So much for the break," Hogan muttered, "Let's go inside." He uncrossed his arms and stepped away from the wall, darting a quick look at Kinch as he headed into the barracks.

When they got inside, Hogan scooped up his cup from where it sat on the table and walked over to the stove. He lifted the coffee pot, poured some of the brownish, lukewarm liquid into his cup, and set the pot back down. Then he stepped over to the table and placed his foot on the bench next to it, resting his forearm on his raised leg while leaning forward and taking a sip from the cup he was holding in his other hand. He looked at his radioman, who had sat down near the other end of the table and asked, "What's the message, Kinch?"

Kinch looked down at the paper he had extracted from his jacket pocket. "They want to know if we have any penicillin available, and if we could spare some. One of their top agents was injured last night, and they're worried he's developing an infection."

"I'll have to check with Wilson –"

"Already did, Colonel," Kinch interrupted, "He says we have a little left from that drop last month, when we needed it for Olsen after he tore up his leg on the barbed wire fence sneaking back into camp."

Hogan frowned as he considered it. "How important is this agent?" he asked at last.

"Pretty important, sir. They said if he doesn't make it, they'll lose at least a dozen or so contacts."

"Can't someone else fill in with those contacts?"

Kinch shook his head, "No, sir, he's the only one they'll talk to."

"All right," Hogan removed his foot from the bench and stood up. "I guess we can spare some penicillin. Kinch, contact the Underground; ask them when and where they want to set up a meeting."

"I already did that, too, Colonel," Kinch dropped his gaze to the paper in his hands, "They said they want us to meet them tonight at midnight, at these coordinates." He stood up and passed the paper to Hogan.

Hogan glanced at the paper and nodded. He looked back at Kinch and said, "Well, it looks like you already took care of everything, didn't you?" He narrowed his eyes, "How did you know I would agree to it?"

Kinch shrugged, a small grin overtaking his face.

Hogan smirked. "Keep this up, Kinch, and you're gonna put me out of a job."

"Never, sir," Kinch replied quickly, "Besides, Colonel, no one else would want it."

Hogan chuckled at that. "All right, go let the Underground know we'll be there tonight." He glanced around the barracks, "Where are the rest of the guys?"

"Carter's down in the tunnel, working on some explosives, and Newkirk's over in Barracks Four, playing cards."

"And LeBeau?"

"He's out pestering Schultz to let him have a few things from the food supplies that came in today."

"If he offers to make him strudel, I'm sure Schultz will give him anything he asks for," Hogan grinned.

Kinch leaned in conspiratorially, "Let's just hope Schultz doesn't give him the ingredients to make that fish stew, sir."

"Agreed," Hogan nodded.

Kinch turned and headed toward the false-bottom bunk that hid the tunnel entrance. When he got there he banged on it twice, and as it opened, he looked back at Hogan. "Oh, who did you want to send tonight, Colonel?"

Hogan deliberated. "I'll go," he said after a moment, "And I'll take Newkirk with me; I think he could use something productive to do."

"Yes, sir," Kinch grinned; then he climbed down into the tunnel, closing the bottom bunk behind him.

* * *

"I still don't know how I got 'volunteered' to go on this ruddy mission," Corporal Peter Newkirk groused as the men filed into the barracks following the nightly roll call.

"That's what happens when you spend all day playing cards," Corporal Louis LeBeau chided, brushing past him to walk over to the table and sit down.

Sergeant Andrew Carter tossed his cap and gloves onto his bunk and took a seat opposite LeBeau at the table. "Well, I just hope you and the colonel don't get caught outside if it starts to rain. I saw some pretty big clouds moving in earlier."

Newkirk frowned. "Just my luck," he muttered.

"You mean our luck," Hogan said as he circled around from behind Newkirk and stopped next to him, tossing his arm around the Englishman's shoulders.

Newkirk shot him a sideways glance. "Sir, I don't suppose we could postpone the meetin' until tomorrow night, could we?"

"Don't tell me you're afraid of getting a little wet, Newkirk? Besides, we've got to get this penicillin to that agent as soon as possible." Hogan reached into his jacket pocket with his free hand and pulled out a small glass vial, holding it up briefly before slipping it back into his pocket. "He doesn't have much time."

Newkirk let out a sigh. "You're right, sir."

Hogan dropped his arm and walked over to the tunnel entrance. "We better get going," he said, tossing a glance at Newkirk while banging twice on the bunk frame.

Newkirk followed, and the two men climbed down into the tunnel. After stopping briefly to grab a couple of guns and stuffing them into their jacket pockets, they walked down an adjacent tunnel, climbed up through the hollow tree stump, and headed out into the night.

* * *

The first thing Hogan noticed as he and Newkirk began to make their way through the forest was the air; it was thick with moisture, the humidity causing small beads of perspiration to form on his neck and forehead, despite the cooler temperature. He hurried along as best he could in the darkness, listening for patrols while making sure Newkirk was still behind him, hoping they could get there and back before it started to rain.

They made it to the abandoned barn where the meeting had been set up and, after verifying the two men waiting there were indeed Underground agents, Hogan handed over the vial of penicillin. The men thanked them and headed out, and Hogan and Newkirk did the same.

They hadn't gone far when Hogan saw a flash of light streak across the sky, followed several seconds later by a rumble of thunder. Drops of rain began falling, pattering down on the leaves around him and bouncing off his leather jacket. He stopped and turned around, almost bumping into Newkirk.

"If this gets bad, we should try to find shelter," he said, keeping his voice low. As if to accentuate his point, another flash of lightning lit up the sky, closer this time, followed almost immediately by a giant boom. The sky opened up, sending a torrent of rain cascading down, quickly soaking both men.

Hogan grabbed Newkirk's arm. "C'mon," he practically shouted over the rushing sound of the rain. He gave the Englishman's arm a slight tug as he turned, then let go and headed toward the tree line to the right of them.

Newkirk followed closely behind Hogan; the rain making it difficult to see. They reached the edge of the trees and the two men emerged to see a field stretching out before them, interrupted by the silhouette of a building not far from where they stood. The lightning flashed again, and they could see it was a barn. As the thunder cracked overhead, they made a dash for it, making it to the door just as another streak of light lit up the sky.

Hogan eased open the door and the two men slipped inside. It was dark, but they could hear the sound of pigs grunting close by, and the place smelled of hay and animal refuse.

While the men stood facing the door, waiting for the storm to die down, Newkirk pulled his uniform cover off his head and shook it, sending water droplets flying in every direction. "Blimey, it's really comin' down out there, ain't it?"

Hogan unzipped his jacket and shook the sides of it back and forth, flinging more water droplets into the air. "You said it, Newkirk. Lucky we found this barn." Another bolt of lightning flashed, brighter than the last, and they both flinched when the giant boom of thunder followed immediately after, rattling the sides of the building.

Some of the pigs started squealing, no doubt scared of the storm. "Poor buggers," Newkirk muttered.

Suddenly a small flash of light appeared behind them inside the barn, and they whirled around, their backs to the door. There was a tall man standing in front of them, holding a glowing kerosene lamp in one hand. Hogan watched as the man shook his other hand, extinguishing the match he had just used to light the lamp.

"Was ist los?" the man said, his tone mildly threatening.

"Oh, is this your barn?" Hogan asked innocently, "Sorry, we got caught out there in the storm, and –"

"You speak English?" the man interrupted, sounding surprised. He spoke with a very noticeable German accent.

"Yes, we do," Hogan replied, tossing a glance at Newkirk.

The man shifted slightly, raising the lamp out in front of him to cast more light on the two men hovering by the door. "What are you doing in here?"

"Just tryin' to get out of the rain, mate," Newkirk answered, wringing the wet uniform cover in his hands.

The man's eyebrows rose and he pointed to Newkirk, "You sound like my Oma."

"Oma?" asked Newkirk.

"My…" the man stopped, his brow furrowed in thought. "Grandmother," he replied at last, remembering the word. "She was from England."

"Is that how you know English?" asked Hogan.

The man nodded. "Ja, she taught me and my brother when we were young. She lived with us for many years. After she died, my older brother, Kurt, practiced with me when we were growing up so we wouldn't forget." He eyed Newkirk curiously and cocked his head to the side. "You remind me of Kurt," he said, pausing a moment before looking back at Hogan. "My name's Karl."

"It's nice to meet you Karl," Hogan said with a slight nod, "We didn't mean to disturb you –"

"You two are soldiers, Ja?" Karl interrupted again, "My brother Kurt is a soldier, he was sent to fight the Russians…" His voice trailed off, a faraway look appearing on his face. After a few moments he seemed to refocus, and frowned at Hogan. "But you are Allied soldiers, aren't you? You are not supposed to be here."

Hogan held up his hands, his palms facing Karl. "We meant no harm," he tried to reassure him, "In fact, we were just leaving." He lowered his arms and started to turn toward the door.

"Wait, don't go," Karl replied, a hint of desperation in his voice, "I don't care if you are Allied soldiers, I won't tell anyone."

Hogan turned back, exchanging a quick glance with Newkirk. "We appreciate that," he said, "But we still need to be going…"

"Oh, but you are both soaking wet," Karl quickly cut in, "Why don't you come to the house? I can give you some towels to dry off with."

"That's really not necessary," Hogan replied, "We're fine."

Karl pointed to Newkirk. "But he looks cold."

"Trust me, he's fine," Hogan reiterated, somewhat firmly.

Something dark passed across Karl's face as he stared at Hogan. It lasted barely a second, and then it was gone. In the dim lighting, it went unnoticed by both Hogan and Newkirk.

Karl cleared his throat and stood a little straighter. "Well, I'd feel better if you would both come to the house, just for a few minutes."

Hogan slowly shook his head. "I'm sorry, but we really have to go –"

"Please?" Karl implored, glancing between the two men, "It's been a long time since we've had company."

"We?" asked Newkirk.

"My Papi and me," Karl answered.

Hogan shifted uncomfortably. "Is your Papi in the house?"

"No," a distant look once again overtook Karl's face, "He had to go away…" his voice trailed off. A few seconds later his eyes cleared, and he fixed Hogan with a hopeful stare.

Hogan tossed Newkirk a glance, his eyes registering an almost imperceptible shrug coming from the English corporal. He looked back at Karl, noting the pleading look on his face, and found himself saying, "All right, we'll come to the house with you. But we can only stay a few minutes."

Karl's eyes lit up and he smiled. "Wunderbar! This way," he gestured with his free hand as he turned around and headed for the other side of the barn, looking back frequently to make sure the two men were following.

"Are you sure this is a good idea, sir?" Newkirk whispered quietly to Hogan, who was walking next to him on his left.

"He seems harmless enough," Hogan whispered back, "Besides, I get the feeling he's all alone here."

Karl reached the end of the barn and opened the door. After he stepped out, he held it open for Hogan and Newkirk; then began to lead the way to the house.

While the men had been inside the barn, the storm had moved on; the rain letting up to a light drizzle. The lightning still flashed periodically off in the distance, but the thunder took much longer to return, and it had reduced considerably in volume. The air still hung thick with moisture, but the temperature had noticeably dropped, and both Hogan and Newkirk found themselves shivering in their wet uniforms. Hogan's leather jacket had afforded him the advantage of keeping his upper body drier, but Newkirk's jacket and shirt underneath were soaked.

As they walked the short distance to the house, Karl slowed his gait until he was in line with Hogan, off to his left. "That's where Kurt and I grew up," he said, pointing at the two-story home.

They reached the bottom of the stairs leading up to the door, and Karl climbed up, pausing to glance behind him as he grabbed the doorknob. He waved the two men up, then opened the door and stepped inside.

Hogan and Newkirk followed Karl inside, and the German circled around and shut the door. "You can hang up your coats there," he said, pointing at the coat stand to the right of the door, "And I will get some towels." He hurried out of the room.

Hogan looked at Newkirk and shrugged. He removed his jacket and crush cap and hung them up, watching as the Englishman did the same with his own jacket and cover. Karl returned and handed them each a towel, which they gratefully accepted. As they rubbed their faces and hair with the absorbent cloth, Hogan surreptitiously glanced at Karl, getting a good look at him. He was indeed tall, over six feet, with brown hair that hung a little long and scraggly along the sides and down the back of his neck. His clothes were dull brown and ill-fitting – a little too short for his arms and legs – and he appeared young; eighteen or nineteen, Hogan guessed.

Hogan also glanced around the room, noting the old, shabby furniture occupying the living room which opened up to the right just beyond the doorway. Everything appeared neat and clutter-free, but even from where he was standing, he could see a thick layer of dust covering the end tables and lamps in the room, as if no one had been in there for a very long time.

Finished with his towel, Hogan handed it back to Karl and said, "Thank you; that helped a lot."

Newkirk handed his over as well. "Yeah, thanks mate, I feel a mite better; just wish me clothes could dry that fast." He grabbed the front of his damp shirt and pulled it away from his chest, fanning it briefly.

"I can make a fire, if you like," Karl offered as he set the towels down on a nearby table, "It will help dry your clothes."

"No thanks, we have to be going," said Hogan.

"But he's still wet," Karl pointed to Newkirk.

Hogan grinned, "Oh, don't worry, he'll dry out eventually."

"Not before I catch me death, sir," Newkirk muttered sarcastically.

Karl frowned. "You see? He needs to stay here," he insisted, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Hogan's grin faded. "Look, I promise you he'll be fine. Now, we really have to go." As he reached for his jacket, Karl quickly pulled his hands out of his pockets, one of which now held a gun.

"Don't move," Karl said, aiming the gun at him.

Hogan froze, tossing a quick glance at Newkirk before turning his attention back to Karl. "Put the gun down," he stated in a firm tone.

Karl's expression darkened. "You remind me of my Papi, always telling me and Kurt what to do," his gaze flicked to Newkirk when he mentioned his brother's name. He took a step back and gestured with the gun. "This way," he ordered, pointing to the cellar door.

Newkirk slowly raised his hands, his palms out. "Mate, why do you want to do this?"

"Don't you understand, Kurt? I have to!" Karl shouted.

Newkirk frowned in bewilderment. "Uh, me name's not Kurt, it's Newkirk."

"No, it's…" Karl grimaced and shook his head, "Stop confusing me!"

Hogan spoke up, keeping his voice calm, "Look, I'm Colonel Hogan, and this is Corporal Newkirk," he raised his hand slowly and pointed to the Englishman. "We escaped from a prisoner of war camp, and we'd just as soon go back there. Now, why don't you let us go so we can return to Stalag Thirteen…"

"Stop telling me what to do!" Karl yelled. Once again he pointed to the cellar door and glared at Hogan. "Get going or I will shoot you." To emphasize his point, he drew the safety catch back on the gun.

Hogan let out a quiet sigh and walked slowly toward the door. Karl gestured to Newkirk, and the Englishman followed. The two men descended the stairs, Karl flicking the light switch on and climbing down behind them, keeping his gun trained at their backs. When they got to the cellar floor, Karl barked, "Keep going."

The men walked across the cellar, stopping when they reached the door to a separate room at the far end. "Go in," Karl commanded them.

Hogan reluctantly stepped inside, followed by Newkirk. It was a small, empty rectangular room, devoid of even a light fixture. The walls were solid brick, and there was a tiny window perched high up against the outside wall, black as the night outside.

"You can stay in here until I decide what to do," Karl said, his expression unreadable. He closed the thick, wooden door and, removing a key from his other pocket, locked it securely. Then he turned around and went back upstairs, leaving Hogan and Newkirk in the dark.


	2. Brother's Keeper

Brother's Keeper

Once the door had closed, Hogan and Newkirk found themselves standing in the small room in the cellar in the pitch dark. They listened as Karl's footsteps faded, both of them too shocked to say anything until the sound was gone.

Newkirk was the first to break the silence. "Colonel, what just happened?"

Hogan shook his head, but in the darkness, Newkirk couldn't see it.

"Colonel?"

"Sorry, Newkirk, I'm just trying to figure that out myself." Hogan reached out his hand, swinging it around in the darkness. Almost immediately it brushed up against something soft and damp next to him.

"Uh, that would be me arm, sir," Newkirk said, shifting a little.

"I know it's your arm," Hogan replied, latching onto it, "I'm trying to get my bearings in here...Ow! Newkirk, that's my foot!"

"Sorry, sir," Newkirk quickly removed his foot from on top of Hogan's, "It would help if we could bloody see."

"Well, don't you have some matches on you or something?"

"Oh, right, Colonel!" There was the sound of rustling cloth, followed by a groan. "Blimey, me matches are all wet, sir."

"Well, try them anyway," suggested Hogan.

Newkirk took one of the matches and struck it across the strip along the edge of the matchbook. Nothing happened, so he tried a few more times. It still wouldn't light, so he dropped it and took out another match, striking it several times and getting the same result. He tried a few more, but after the fifth attempt failed, he threw the match down and sighed with frustration. "It's no use, sir, they're too bloody wet."

Hogan let out a sigh of his own. "All right, let's just…" he paused, circling his free hand behind his back, "I know there's a wall back here somewhere, maybe if we…" He tightened his grip on Newkirk's arm and started to walk backwards slowly, pulling the Englishman with him. It only took a couple steps before he bumped up against the wall. "There it is," he announced unnecessarily.

Newkirk felt the wall behind him at the same time and, after Hogan let go of his arm, they both slid down to sit on the floor. Using the wall as a back rest, they sat next to each other, their arms touching. Hogan stretched his legs out in front of him, while Newkirk drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around his legs.

"Blimey, it's cold," Newkirk muttered, shivering slightly in his damp uniform.

Hogan frowned with concern. "I'd give you my jacket, but it's upstairs." Now that they were sitting, he was starting to feel chilly himself, but at least his shirt was dry.

"Mine, too, sir," Newkirk replied, "Not that it would do me much bloody good; it's wetter than me shirt."

Hogan let out a sigh of frustration. "You know what else is upstairs? My gun; it's in the pocket of my jacket."

Newkirk nodded in the darkness. "Same here, Colonel."

"What about your lock picks?"

"They're in me jacket, as well, sir. 'Sides, they wouldn't help; the door's locked on the outside."

Hogan sighed again and tried to relax against the wall. "I still can't figure this kid, Karl, out. Why was he calling you, 'Kurt'?"

"Seems he's confusing me with his brother, would be my guess, sir. What I'd like to know is, why did he get so ruddy mad at you?"

"Maybe he's confusing me with his father. From the way he was talking, I got the feeling he doesn't like him very much."

"Yeah, but, why pull a gun on us? Why lock us up down here? What's his game, Colonel?"

"Newkirk, if I knew the answer to that, we wouldn't _be_ stuck down here," Hogan said, shifting to make himself more comfortable. "As it is, we're obviously not going anywhere any time soon."

"You're right, sir," Newkirk replied, sounding discouraged.

Hogan heard the note of despair in Newkirk's voice and frowned. "Don't worry; I'm sure we'll figure a way out of here. We've been in worse jams than this, haven't we?"

The corners of Newkirk's mouth rose slightly. "You've got me there, gov'nor."

"In the meantime, we might as well try to get some sleep." Hogan leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

"Good idea, sir," agreed Newkirk. He straightened his legs out and wrapped his arms around his midsection in an effort to keep warm, after which he, too, tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

But it was a long time before sleep would come to either man.

* * *

"Where are they?" LeBeau asked for the fifth time, poking his head through the tunnel opening from the barracks, "It's almost time for roll call!"

"I wish I knew, Louis," Kinch replied as he walked over to the ladder and climbed up. LeBeau moved back to give him some room, and after Kinch stepped out and hit the bunk to close it, the Frenchman started up again.

"They should have been back hours ago! What are we going to tell Klink? Oh, mon ami, what if something dreadful happened to them?"

Kinch held up his hand. "Take it easy, Louis, let's not panic."

"Yeah, I'm sure the colonel and Newkirk are okay," came Carter's voice from the front of the double bunk he shared with Newkirk, "They probably just got caught in the storm and had to hole up somewhere."

LeBeau turned around and frowned at Carter. "Maybe, but that storm was over five hours ago!"

"Oh," Carter looked thoughtful as he tugged on his jacket. "Well, maybe they got lost," he suggested, but even he knew that didn't sound very likely.

LeBeau turned back to Kinch. "Did they even make it to the meeting?"

Kinch nodded. "Yeah, I got a message from the Underground about an hour ago, thanking us for the penicillin."

LeBeau contemplated. "So, something must have happened on their way back…"

"That sounds logical," Carter cut in.

LeBeau rolled his eyes. "You're not helping, Carter."

"Well, geez, Louis, what do you want me to say?" Carter walked over to where LeBeau and Kinch were standing. "I'm worried about them, too, you know."

Kinch let out a sigh. "Look, fellas, there's not much we can do about it at the moment. If they don't come back soon, we'll just have to figure out a way to go look for them."

"But we have roll call in a few minutes!" exclaimed LeBeau, "What _are_ we going to tell Klink?"

"What else?" Kinch shrugged resignedly, "We'll tell him they escaped."

* * *

Dawn had arrived, and the morning light was just starting to filter in through the small window above, when the door opened to reveal Karl standing there; a gun in one hand, his other hand behind his back.

"Wake up," Karl said to the two men huddled against the far wall.

Hogan blinked his eyes open, becoming aware that Newkirk's head was on his shoulder, and his own head was resting on the Englander's. He straightened his head, wincing from the soreness that had settled in his neck muscles and gave Newkirk a nudge.

Newkirk's eyes flew open and he immediately righted himself. "What… What's going on?" he mumbled, blinking rapidly.

"Our friendly neighborhood kidnapper is back," Hogan muttered while eyeing Karl, who now frowned at him.

"You're just angry because I don't have to listen to you anymore," he replied smugly. "Besides, I came for him," he pointed at Newkirk.

"Me?" Newkirk's eyebrows rose.

"Ja, I have a surprise for you." Karl's eyes brightened.

Newkirk turned his head to look at Hogan, who was still staring at Karl. "He's not going anywhere with you," Hogan stated firmly.

A frown reappeared on Karl's face and he pointed the gun at Hogan's chest. "He _is_ coming with me, and there is nothing you can do about it."

"It's all right, Colonel," Newkirk placed a hand on Hogan's shoulder as he clambered quickly to his feet, "I'll go. I'm sure he's not planning on doin' me in, are you, mate?" He turned toward Karl, a friendly expression plastered on his face while underneath a knot of fear settled in his gut.

"Do you in?" Karl seemed genuinely confused for a moment; then it dawned on him what Newkirk meant. "Oh, no, of course not!" he snickered, "You are just teasing me; you know I would never do that!"

"That's good to hear," Hogan said, rising to his feet while keeping a wary eye on Karl.

Karl glanced at him, his eyes narrowing slightly while tightening his grip on the gun. Then he turned his attention back to Newkirk. "I thought of a game we could play, just like we did when we were kids and we wanted to surprise each other, remember?" He turned to the colonel and, pulling his hand out from behind him, tossed Hogan the rope he'd been holding. Looking back at Newkirk, he said, "Only, instead of a blindfold, you will have your hands tied behind your back. It will be safer that way, Ja?" Once again he glanced at Hogan. "Well, go ahead."

Hogan's eyes widened as he realized what Karl was asking him to do. "What? I'm not gonna –"

'Click' went Karl's gun as he slid the safety off.

"Uh, Colonel," Newkirk quickly cut in, "It's all right, sir, you might as well do as he says." He turned around and extended his arms back, putting his wrists together.

"Make sure you do it right… No cheating!"

Hogan glared at Karl for a moment; then he exhaled forcefully and proceeded to wrap the rope around Newkirk's wrists, tying it securely. When he was finished, he returned his gaze to Karl, his eyes dark and threatening. "If you hurt him, so help me, I'll –"

"I already told you I won't," Karl huffed. He waved Newkirk over, his eyes lighting up again. "Let's go, I can't wait to show you my surprise."

Newkirk started to walk over to him, when he stopped suddenly and frowned, the knot in his gut twisting. "How do I know you won't try to hurt the Colonel after I'm gone?"

"Oh, you don't need to worry about him," Karl replied.

"Yeah, don't worry about me, Newkirk, I'll be all right," Hogan tried to reassure him.

Newkirk turned to look at Hogan, worry etched on his face. Lowering his voice, he said quietly, "Sir, I'm not going to let this, this… Kid hurt you, not if I can help it."

"I'm not a kid; you know I'm almost twenty-two years old," Karl stated, "And I told you I won't hurt him," he gestured to Hogan, "As long as he does what I say."

"I'll do what you say, as long as you don't hurt Newkirk," Hogan replied.

"There, you see? It's settled," Karl said, once again waving Newkirk over, "Come on."

With a sigh, Newkirk resumed walking towards the door. When he got there he looked back, his eyes locking with Hogan's, letting his fear for the colonel show through. Hogan gave him a small nod, as if to tell him not to worry, but Newkirk could see a hint of fear in his eyes, as well, and he knew the colonel was just as worried about him.

Newkirk stepped out of the room, moving over to where Karl directed while the German shut and locked the door. When he was finished, Karl pointed to the stairs on the other end of the cellar. Newkirk hesitated for a brief second; then walked towards them, Karl following at a comfortable distance.

Newkirk climbed up the stairs, stepping aside once he got to the landing. Karl joined him and pointed toward the door where Newkirk and Hogan had entered the house not six hours ago. "This way," he said, taking the lead.

Newkirk followed, brushing past a small table jammed up against the wall to his right. On it a pile of papers and envelopes were scattered about – letters and other assorted mail from the looks of it. An idea occurred to him, and he angled his back to the table, palming a couple of the envelopes on the top of the pile and tucking them up under the hem of his shirt. Then he hurried to catch up with Karl and as he approached the door, noticed with concern that both his and Hogan's jackets were no longer hanging on the coat stand.

"Where's our jackets?" Newkirk asked.

"Oh, you won't need those anymore," Karl said, glancing to the coat stand. "But don't worry, I kept the guns; I'm sure I can find some use for them." He opened the door and walked outside, holding it for Newkirk who reluctantly followed, having to blink several times while his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight. After Karl closed the door, he grabbed the Englishman's arm and led him down the steps; then across the lawn, aiming for the barn.

"You're taking me to the barn?" Newkirk asked as they approached the large building.

"Ja," Karl's face lit up, "Wait until you see… I set up a room just for you. You're going to love it!"

They stopped at the door and Newkirk stared at him, thoroughly confused. "You're puttin' me in the ruddy barn? Why out here, mate? Why not in the house?"

Karl shifted uncomfortably. "I don't like being in the house very much." His gaze swept over the wall of the building where they were standing. "It's better out here. Besides, I have to look after the animals, anyway." He opened the door and ushered Newkirk inside, once again latching onto his arm and leading him through the barn. When they were just over halfway across, Karl stopped in front of a stall with a large wooden door in front of it. Smiling wide, he let go of Newkirk's arm, grabbed the latch on the door and pulled it open.

Newkirk's eyebrows shot up when he saw what was inside; there was a bed set up against the far wall, all made up with sheets, blankets and even a pillow at one end. Next to the bed sat a small night table covered with stacks of pictures, as well as a few books perched precariously near the edge. There was even a small throw rug on the ground, directly in front of the bed.

"Do you like it?" Karl asked excitedly, "I brought your bed out here and set it up myself. I even brought you some pictures of us, and the books you liked to read. It was everything I could find in your room that Papi didn't destroy when he found out…" He stopped, a deep frown suddenly engulfing his face.

"Found out, what?" Newkirk prodded.

Karl's face went completely blank for several moments; then he blinked and shook his head. He smiled and gestured to the bed. "Have a seat."

Keeping a wary eye on Karl, Newkirk walked over and sat down on the bed. The German crossed the floor to the end of the bed and leaned over, picking up one end of a chain which was piled in the corner. He brought it over to Newkirk and squatted down in front of him, quickly clamping the manacle on the end of the chain around his ankle. As Karl stood up, Newkirk remarked, "Is this ruddy necessary?"

"It is if you want me to untie you," Karl replied. He motioned for Newkirk to turn sideways, after which he reached down and undid the rope around his wrists. Then he stepped back until he was standing near the door.

Newkirk brought his arms around to the front and rubbed his wrists. "Look, mate, I appreciate what you've done here, but I'm not your brother… You know that, right?"

Karl smiled. "Oh, Kurt, you're just teasing me again."

Newkirk sighed in frustration. "Me name's not Kurt, it's Newkirk – Peter Newkirk, and you need to let me and Colonel Hogan go right bloody now!"

"You know I can't do that, Kurt." The smile on Karl's face widened. "Now that I have you back, I'm never letting you go." He stepped out of the redecorated stall, and as he was closing the door, he said, "I have some things to take care of, but I will return later."

Newkirk watched him shut the door, shaking his head slowly as he heard Karl walk away. _Poor kid's crackers,_ he thought to himself. He reached down and took hold of the chain, giving it an experimental tug. It held tight at the other end, and when he looked over at the corner, he saw it connected to a large metal ring sticking up out of the floor. He stood up and walked toward the door, noting that the chain only allowed him to reach halfway there.

With a sigh, Newkirk went back to the bed and sat down. He glanced around the stall, his gaze coming to rest on the piles of pictures. He picked up a stack and thumbed through the old photographs, recognizing Karl in various stages of his youth, smiling and standing next to an older boy in each picture. _That must be Kurt,_ he guessed, noticing the older one's resemblance to Karl. He set the pictures back on the table, and then his eyes suddenly lit up and he snapped his fingers; _the mail!_

Newkirk reached behind him and pulled out the envelopes he had tucked under his shirt. The top one was addressed to an 'Ernst Fleischer', and the return address appeared to bear the name of a local business. _Ernst Fleischer… Must be his dad._ As he pulled the envelopes apart, a wrinkled, folded up paper fell out from between them. He glanced first at the second envelope, which looked very much like the first one, before scooping up the paper that had landed in his lap. When he unfolded it his eyes widened; it was a telegram from the Army. He quickly scanned through it, his jaw dropping as he translated the German words in his head:

 _We regret to inform you that your son Sergeant Kurt E. Fleischer was killed in action seventeen February in Belarus…_

"Blimey…" Newkirk breathed, "So that's why Karl's gone 'round the bend…"

* * *

After Karl left the barn, he headed back to the house. When he got inside, he went to the kitchen and grabbed a chair, carrying it with him down to the cellar. He stopped at the door to the room where Hogan was and said loudly, "Stand away from the door." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the key and unlocked the door, holding the gun in his other hand at the ready.

Karl slowly opened the door, his eyes darting back and forth, almost immediately spotting Hogan, who was standing near the wall at the other end of the room. Keeping his gun aimed at him, Karl grabbed the chair and slid it into the room. He positioned it so that it sat in the middle of the room, facing the door. "Sit down," he said to Hogan, then moved back to the doorway, now leaning down and picking up a pile of rope he had left just outside the door. He stepped back into the room, where Hogan was still standing by the wall, glaring at him.

Karl's eyes narrowed and he pointed to the chair. "That wasn't a request."

Hogan came forward, circling to the front of the chair while Karl kept a safe distance. Once Hogan was seated, Karl moved behind him with the rope. "Put your hands behind you," he said, waiting for Hogan to comply.

Instead, Hogan just sat there, asking angrily, "Where did you take Newkirk?"

"Someplace you'll never find him if you don't do as I say," Karl shot back.

Hogan sighed and put his hands behind him. Karl grabbed them and, threading the rope through the slots on the back of the chair, began tying Hogan's wrists tightly together.

"How do I know you won't hurt him?" Hogan pressed, but this time he didn't receive an answer.

Karl finished at last, and stood up. "There, all done," he stated and walked over to the door. He turned to look at Hogan and, grabbing the door to close it, said, "Now, stay right there, I have a surprise for you." Then he shut the door and left.


	3. Where's Papi?

Where's Papi?

After Karl had gone, Hogan continued to glare at the door, his helplessness fueling his anger. He tugged at the rope holding his wrists together, but it wouldn't budge. Apparently Karl was an expert at tying ropes; no doubt having had plenty of practice from working on a farm most of his life.

Still, Hogan kept at it, trying to loosen the ropes, until his wrists grew sore from the friction. He stopped twisting them and sighed in frustration. _I've got to get out of here,_ his mind repeated to him for the thousandth time, followed immediately by, _where did he take Newkirk? What's he doing to him?_ He was already regretting allowing Newkirk to leave with Karl, but really, what choice did he have? If he'd tried anything, he'd be dead now, and Karl would still have Newkirk. _What the hell does he want with him, anyway? Is he still pretending Newkirk's his brother?_

Several scenarios began to play out in his mind, each more terrifying than the last, all of them culminating in a gruesome end for Newkirk. Hogan struggled against the ropes again, but he couldn't keep it up long; his wrists were starting to burn. _I hate this!_ his mind yelled, _I've got to get out of here!_ And suddenly he was back where he started.

Hogan exhaled loudly and sagged into the chair, his energy spent for the moment. He stared at the door, willing Karl to return; maybe by some miracle he could talk the kid – no, man – into letting him and Newkirk go. Or at least, letting Newkirk go; he could live with that. Of course, Karl might decide to shoot him as soon as talk to him, and then there would be nothing he could do to help Newkirk. _There has to be some way… Something I can do to get us out of here._ But his brain kept coming up empty.

Frustrated, Hogan dropped his gaze to the floor, consciously trying to clear his mind, hoping to let new ideas form; anything that might help solve the predicament he found himself in; or at least, figure out a way to help Newkirk.

But nothing came to mind, and he once again sighed in frustration. Realizing there was nothing he could do, for the moment, anyway, he leaned back in the chair, relaxed his arms as much as he could, and prepared himself to wait for Karl to come back; however long that may be.

* * *

"Escaped?" Colonel Wilhelm Klink stared incredulous at Kinch, who was standing behind Hogan's empty spot for morning roll call.

"Yes, sir," Kinch replied, waiting for the inevitable tirade from Klink that was about to follow. He knew from the moment he'd seen the Kommandant's face when Sergeant Schultz informed him two prisoners were missing that he wasn't going to take it well.

"What do you mean, escaped?" Klink scowled and shook his fist in the air, "How could Colonel Hogan and Corporal Newkirk have escaped? Schultz!" he yelled at the hapless guard, "Did you know about this?"

"Nein, Kommandant! I only found out this morning when I went into the barracks to wake up the prisoners for roll call."

"Well, don't just stand there, Schultz, call out the guards! Release the dogs!"

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant!" Schultz threw a quick salute and hurried off.

"Now, Sergeant," Klink narrowed his eyes at Kinch, "You wouldn't happen to know anything about their escape, would you?"

"No, sir," Kinch replied innocently.

"No, of course you wouldn't," Klink replied in a sarcastic tone. He glanced around at the other prisoners, but they all continued to stand at attention, their faces blank. "Very well, you are dismissed for now," he stated loudly, "But you are all confined to the barracks until Colonel Hogan and Corporal Newkirk are found!" He turned and marched back to the Kommandantur, his stride reflecting his anger and frustration.

"He took it better than I thought he would," LeBeau commented from Kinch's left.

"So, now what?" Carter slid in next to Kinch as the men began filing into the barracks.

"Now, we wait," Kinch replied, "And hope the colonel and Newkirk make it back here soon."

"And if they don't?" asked LeBeau.

Kinch glanced at the Frenchman, a look of determination in his eyes. "Then we'll go out tonight after roll call and look for them ourselves."

* * *

Newkirk was still studying the telegram he held in his hands when he heard the barn door at the far end open and someone step inside. Knowing it had to be Karl, he quickly grabbed the envelopes and, together with the telegram, pulled the edge of the mattress up and shoved them underneath it. As the footfalls grew near, he set his hands in his lap and fixed an innocent gaze on the door.

But the door never opened, and after a few minutes Newkirk realized Karl wasn't there to see him, after all. He must have come in to take care of the animals, judging by the sounds of gates being opened and shut, and the subsequent shuffling and grunting of the pigs coming from their stalls on the other side of the barn.

Newkirk sat and listened, wondering if he should say something to get the man's attention. He'd grown increasingly worried about Hogan after Karl's unfinished outburst concerning his father earlier, and the blank look that had appeared in the German's eyes afterwards had been disconcerting, to say the least. Karl obviously bore some kind of grudge against his Papi, and if Karl's mind had begun to replace him with Hogan – like he had with Newkirk for his brother – there was no telling what he might do to the colonel.

Of course, that begged the question, where was Ernst Fleischer? Or, more importantly, when was he expected to return? _Maybe that's what I should be askin' him,_ he thought to himself, _where's his Papi? That might be the only bloke, what can set the poor kid straight._

Newkirk heard one of the pigs let out a particularly loud squeal, and Karl yelling something in German. Then the barn door opened and, after a brief scuffle of both two and four-legged feet, along with angry snorts of protest, the door closed. He could hear the pig squealing and grunting outside as it was led away, the sound eventually fading into the distance. _Now where's he gone off to with that pig?_ Newkirk wondered briefly; then shrugged. _Guess I'll have to wait 'til he comes back to try talkin' to him._

Feeling frustrated, Newkirk turned and stretched out on the bed, shoving his hands under his head as he stared at the underside of the barn roof. _Sure wish I knew how the gov'nor's doing,_ he sighed _. Blimey, there's got to be some way of gettin' Karl to let us go – or at least, gettin' him to let me see the colonel._ He let his mind wander, hoping an idea would come to him, but the lack of any appreciable amount of sleep coupled with the events of the morning caught up to him, and he let out a big yawn. Before he knew it, he had fallen asleep.

The sound of the stall door opening startled him awake, and Newkirk blinked rapidly while quickly sitting up on the bed. His eyes focused on Karl, who was standing in the doorway, a smile on his face. He was holding a small tray in one hand that held a plate and a glass filled with what looked like water.

"I brought you something to eat," Karl said, taking a few steps into the stall and holding out the tray.

Newkirk, now fully awake, stared at him for a moment, waiting to see if Karl was going to bring the tray over to where he sat. But the man just stood there, so Newkirk got up and walked toward him, noting that the chain around his ankle stopped him just short of reaching the German, but close enough to grab the tray Karl was extending out to him. _He may be crackers, but he's smart, too – w_ hich made him all the more dangerous, Newkirk realized, and his uneasiness went up a notch.

Newkirk reached out and took the tray, carrying it back to the bed and setting it down before retaking his seat. He glanced at the plate, seeing that it contained two pieces of buttered bread and a slice of ham. Grabbing the glass, he took a sip; it was water and, suddenly aware of how thirsty he was, he drank it all down. He set the glass back on the tray and, his brow furrowing suddenly, brought his wrist up and looked at his watch. "How long was I out?" he mumbled, more to himself.

"A few hours," Karl replied, "Long enough for me to get my surprise ready."

The now familiar knot in his gut twisted, and Newkirk's head shot up. "What surprise?" he asked warily, staring at Karl.

"Oh, just something for Papi; you remember how we used to play tricks on him, don't you?"

Alarmed, Newkirk lowered his voice, his tone threatening, "You better not be plannin' on hurting Colonel Hogan."

Karl just smiled at him and turned to leave.

"You told me you wouldn't hurt him," Newkirk said loudly, fear now sounding in his voice as Karl shut the door. He leaped to his feet and took a few steps towards the door, straining against the chain when it stopped him. "You bloody said you wouldn't hurt him!" he yelled as the footsteps receded, terror taking hold of him at the thought of what Karl might be planning to do to Hogan.

Newkirk heard the barn door open and then close, and he tugged his leg against the chain again, wishing for all the world he had his lock picks on him. _Bloody hell!_ his mind shouted, and he sighed heavily in frustration; his fear and anger mixing with the pure helplessness he felt. Knowing there was nothing he could do at the moment, he went back and sat down on the bed, his gaze fixed on the door. "You said you wouldn't hurt him," he muttered quietly, but Karl was already gone.

* * *

Hogan shifted in the chair, trying to reposition himself a little to reduce the tingling and soreness in his arms. It had been hours since Karl had tied him up and left him there in that dank, musty cellar room, and he had spent most of that time agonizing over what had become of Newkirk – where was he? And what was Karl doing to him?

He heard the sound of footsteps just then, coming closer, stopping right outside the room. There was the metallic click of the key being fitted into the lock; after which the door opened and Karl stood there, a playful grin on his face. He had one arm behind his back, as if he were hiding something.

"Where's Newkirk?" Hogan angrily demanded. He was beyond tired of the game Karl seemed to be playing with him.

Smiling wider, Karl brought his hand around from behind his back and tossed something onto the floor in front of Hogan.

It was Newkirk's jacket, and it was covered in blood.

Hogan's gut tightened as fear coursed through him, his heart thudding in his chest from the panic welling up, threatening to overtake him. He stared, wide-eyed; first at the jacket, then up at the man standing in front of him, who had now begun to giggle.

Hogan fought for control, willing himself to remain calm. He opened his mouth, intending to shout at Karl, but his voice came out sounding more like a coarse whisper. "What did you do?"

Karl just stood there smiling, his eyes dancing with mischievous glee. Then he turned around and left, shutting and locking the door behind him.

"What did you do?" Hogan shouted into the empty room, staring with horror at the blood-soaked jacket while tugging helplessly against the rope wrapped around his wrists. "Where's Newkirk? What did you do?"

Hogan kept yelling long after Karl had walked out of range of earshot.

* * *

"Where could they be?" LeBeau muttered while scrubbing the coffee pot clean in the sink that stood against the wall on the left side of the barrack's door.

"Louis, you keep asking that," Carter replied from his seat at the large common area table, "And I keep telling you, I don't know."

"But it's almost noon… They've been missing for over twelve hours!"

A sudden loud clatter made Carter jump as LeBeau dropped the coffee pot on the floor. The Frenchman let out a heavy sigh and leaned down to pick it up. He plopped it back into the sink and began scrubbing it again.

Carter watched him with concern. "I'm sure they're okay, wherever they are," he said, trying to sound reassuring. "Hey, why don't you take a break for a few minutes and come over here and sit down? You look like you could use it. Besides, you've been washing that thing for half an hour; it's got to be clean by now."

LeBeau stopped scrubbing and set the pot in the sink. He grabbed the towel that was draped across his shoulder and yanked it off, drying his hands with it as he walked over to the table. He sat down across from the American sergeant and fixed him with a look of irritation. "How can you say they're okay, Carter? Aren't you worried about them at all?"

Surprised at LeBeau's question, Carter's eyes widened. "Of course I'm worried about them! How could you even ask that?"

"Well, you don't sound very worried…"

"That's because I'm trying to keep _you_ from worrying so much," Carter replied, "How can I worry when you're worried enough for the both of us!"

LeBeau sighed and tossed the towel back onto his shoulder. "You're right, mon ami," he agreed, looking apologetic, "I didn't mean to carry on like that; I just have a bad feeling about this."

"Well, we just gotta trust that your feeling is wrong, 'cuz I don't even want to think about something bad happening to Newkirk or the colonel."

There was a banging noise at the other end of the barracks, and when LeBeau and Carter looked over, they saw Kinch climbing out of the false-bottom bunk. After he closed it he walked over to join them, taking a seat next to LeBeau.

"Any word?" LeBeau asked hopefully.

Kinch shook his head. "I contacted everyone I could in the Underground; no one has seen them."

"Well, geez, they gotta be somewhere," Carter frowned, "I mean, they couldn't have just disappeared from the face of the Earth."

"Look, we can still go out tonight after roll call," Kinch said, "There's going to be a lot of guards out looking for them, but it'll also be dark, so we'll just have to be extra careful we don't get spotted."

"But, where do we look?" LeBeau asked, sounding frustrated again.

"We'll take the route they took last night. If they're not anywhere along there, maybe we'll at least find a clue to where they went."

"That makes sense," Carter nodded.

LeBeau looked doubtful. "And if we don't find any clues?"

Kinch took in a breath and exhaled slowly. "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

* * *

 _Blimey, he's been gone a while, hasn't he?_ Newkirk sat on the bed, wringing his hands, growing more and more fearful of what Karl might be doing to Hogan. He'd gotten up to pace several times over the last few hours, but with the chain attached to his leg, it ended up being a futile endeavor. He checked his watch, surprised to see it was mid-afternoon already. _Where could he be? And what's he doin' to the Colonel?_ His gut tightened just thinking about it, and he heaved a sigh; his fear and frustration weighing heavily on him. _Cor! I've got to get out of here… I've got to help the gov'nor!_ But, try as he might, he couldn't think of any way to escape the bizarre prison Karl had made for him; at least, not without the key to unlock the chain from his ankle.

He looked at the tray next to him and frowned, tempted to pick it up and hurl it at the door. He hadn't touched the food, the knot in his stomach effectively killing his appetite. An idea struck him just then; _maybe if I break the plate, I can use a small piece of it to unlock this ruddy chain 'round me ankle!_ He picked up the plate and slid the food onto the tray, then rose to his feet and raised it over the small end table. He was just about to smack it down hard on the edge of the table when he heard the barn door open.

 _Oh, bloody hell!_ He sat back down and tossed the plate onto the tray, a frown overtaking his face as he glared at the door. He heard Karl walk up to the stall and grab the latch on the other side. For a split second he considered picking up the plate and throwing it at Karl's head when he opened the door; maybe he could knock him out. But Newkirk still didn't have the key to the chain, so it wouldn't do him much good.

The door slid open and Karl stood there, a grin on his face. Before he could utter a word, Newkirk demanded, "I want to see Colonel Hogan."

The grin slowly faded. "Why do you look so angry, Kurt?" Karl asked, confused.

"I told you, I'm not your flippin' brother," Newkirk snapped at him, "Me name's Peter Newkirk and I want to see Colonel Hogan right now!"

Karl tilted his head slightly. "Is this about the joke I played on him after I left here earlier?"

Newkirk's frown deepened. "What joke?"

"Oh, you should have seen it," Karl replied, a smile reforming on his face, "Papi was so mad! Of course, he never could take a joke –"

"What did you do?" Newkirk shouted angrily.

The smile quickly disappeared. "Don't yell at me," Karl said, sounding hurt.

"What did you bloody do?" Newkirk repeated, his voice taking on a threatening tone.

"Why do you care?" Karl shouted back, becoming angry, "After what he did to you… You should be glad he's locked up so he can't hurt you anymore!" He glared at Newkirk for a moment; then lowered his voice. "Have you forgotten he's the one who made you leave in the first place?"

Confusion swept over Newkirk's face. "What are you talkin' about?"

"He made you join the Army!" Karl exclaimed, "And they sent you to fight the Russians, and then the letter came…" his eyes suddenly grew big and he quickly shut his mouth.

Newkirk stared at Karl, debating with himself whether he should tell him he already knew what happened to Kurt, or continue to play dumb. _Maybe if I say something, it'll snap him out of this bloody fantasy world he's got his mind stuck in._ Making his decision, he lowered his voice and said calmly, "Look, mate, I know what happened to your brother, I saw the telegram…"

Karl's face paled. "No, it didn't happen… I've got you back now, it didn't happen!"

Newkirk let out a sigh of frustration. Then he decided to ask the question he'd been wanting to ask from the beginning. "Where's your Papi?"

"He's…" Karl's expression went blank. He stood like that for several seconds, long enough that Newkirk began to worry. Then Karl blinked, and his face filled with anguish. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it!" he cried out, tears falling down his cheeks, "I didn't mean to...to..." He raised his arm and wiped the tears off his face with his sleeve, his eyes now radiating anger. "But I had to, don't you see? It was his fault, you know… All his fault, and he had to pay. It was all his fault!"

Karl turned and ran out of the stall, pulling the door closed before sprinting through the barn. Newkirk heard him yank open the outside door, slamming it shut behind him, and he hitched his breath; terror flooding through him as he realized where Karl was heading. _Cor! He's gone after the gov'nor! Oh, bloody hell, what did I just do?_

* * *

Earlier, after Karl had left the cellar, Hogan had eventually stopped yelling; his throat becoming too dry and scratchy to continue. He'd tugged at the rope periodically behind him, but it wouldn't budge. He'd tried to look away from the blue RAF jacket caked with blood on the floor at his feet, but his gaze had kept coming back to it, causing his stomach to seize up in a knot each time. _This has to be some kind of joke_ , he'd thought to himself, _Newkirk's all right. This is just some twisted game Karl's playing with me._ But the more he'd tried to convince himself, the more he was beginning to doubt it.

It was several hours later when Hogan heard footsteps approaching, and he straightened himself in the chair as best he could, determined this time to get Karl to tell him what he did with Newkirk. After the door was unlocked, it opened and Karl stepped inside, his face an angry mask.

Before Hogan could utter a word, Karl spoke first. "It's your fault he's dead," he stated matter-of-factly, glancing down at the blood-stained jacket and back up to Hogan, "You did this…" his voice rose, "It's your fault!" He reached down and grabbed the jacket, picking it up and holding it close to Hogan's face. "It's your fault!" he repeated angrily, pushing it closer until it was practically touching the colonel's nose.

Hogan instinctively pulled his head back as much as he could, trying to get away from the gruesome object that was being shoved at his face. His heart was thumping in terror as he stared at the jacket; it smelled faintly of iron and the dried blood covering it had taken on a dark red-brownish hue.

Karl held it there a moment longer, then he threw it at the corner behind him and leaned in over Hogan. "He'd still be alive if it wasn't for you!" He shouted into the colonel's face, "It's your fault! Your fault!" He reached up and wrapped his hands around Hogan's throat, squeezing tightly while still yelling, "Your fault!" over and over at him.

Hogan couldn't breathe. His lungs began to ache for air, and his head started swimming. He struggled to get his hands free, but the rope held fast. Dizziness overtook him, and as it grew, he began to lose consciousness.

Karl at last let go, and Hogan sucked in a huge breath of air. He exhaled forcefully, then, drawing in ragged breaths, he shook his head, trying to clear it.

A hand grasped Hogan's chin and forced his head to tilt upwards, and he found himself staring into Karl's eyes, which were filled with hate.

Karl held on to Hogan like that for a few moments, glaring down at him, until the hate emanating from his eyes suddenly changed to remorse, and he let go of Hogan's chin. "I didn't mean it," he apologized, backing up a few steps, "I'm sorry, Papi, I didn't mean to hurt you." He kept backing up until he was at the door. "I didn't mean it!" he shouted, his eyes filling with tears, and he turned and ran out the door, remembering to shut it behind him.

Hogan waited for the sound of the key being turned in the lock, but it never came. He struggled in earnest then, fighting to get his hands free, hoping to get out of there while the door was unlocked, but the rope was tied too well. He sighed heavily and slumped in the chair, wincing from the pain in his throat when he tried to swallow.

Hogan squeezed his eyes shut tight; mentally kicking himself for not speaking up, not asking about Newkirk, even though he knew he'd never really been given the chance. Karl was obviously becoming more unstable, and now he was calling him, "Papi", which meant, in his mind, there was no doubt he had substituted him for his father.

Hogan opened his eyes, instinctively glancing over to the bloody wad of clothing in the corner and his panic suddenly rose, remembering what Karl had been yelling at him. It was his fault, wasn't that it? _My fault he's dead._ Hogan looked away, his stomach churning. _Is Newkirk...could he really be…?_

 _No! I can't think that way! He's alive, he has to be!_ But when Hogan looked back at the jacket piled in the corner, a feeling of dread overtook him, deeper than anything he'd felt before, and he hung his head in despair.


	4. Passing In The Night

Passing In The Night

Despite the chain attached to his ankle limiting the amount of room Newkirk could move in the stall, he was still attempting to pace, too sick with guilt and worry to remain seated on the bed. _Blimey, he's over at the house right now,_ he thought, his mind racing, _doin' somethin' terrible to the gov'nor, and it's all my bloody fault! What the bloody hell was I thinking, bringing up that telegram, or askin' him about his Papi?_ He remembered what Karl had said; that he was sorry and he didn't mean it... _Sorry for what? What did he do?_

Newkirk stopped in his tracks, his eyes growing wide. _Cor! I wonder if he…?_ He shook his head, not wanting to finish that thought, but it was too late. _I wonder if he killed his Papi?_ Fear flooded through him anew, and the knot in his gut twisted. If that were true, it would certainly explain some things. It would also mean that Karl was a lot more dangerous than either he or Hogan had realized.

Newkirk reached the end of the chain again and, letting his frustration get the better of him, tugged hard on it, causing him to lose his balance. As he began to fall he quickly caught himself on the bed, which was right next to him, and his gaze landed on the plate atop the tray that still sat on the bed. He righted himself and grabbed the plate, intending to go through with what he'd planned to do earlier. Turning to the small end table, Newkirk once again lifted the plate and this time brought it down hard on the edge of the table. It broke into three pieces, two of them landing on the small rug below, while the third piece he still held in his hand.

The largest section just happened to be the one he was holding, and after repositioning it in his hand he slammed it against the edge again, hoping to break off a shard small enough to act as a lock pick. A few more pieces broke off, but they were all still too big, the majority of them more or less triangular in shape.

Realizing this was going to be more difficult than he thought, Newkirk tossed the smaller, misshapen piece in his hand down and picked up one of the other larger pieces. Once again he smacked it against the table, but the result was the same. He sighed in frustration and dropped the piece in his hand. _Third time's the charm,_ he thought to himself as he leaned down to grab the last large piece.

But when he tried to pick it up, it slipped in his hand and he instinctively gripped it harder to keep from dropping it, accidentally stabbing the serrated end into his palm.

"Oh, bugger it!" Newkirk exclaimed, throwing the broken piece of plate to the ground. He brought his left hand up to examine it, immediately noticing the blood now pouring out of the jagged hole in the middle of his palm. He glanced around the stall, his gaze falling on the pillow. With his right hand he grabbed the end of the white pillow case and shook it to remove it from the pillow; then rolled it up best he could and wrapped it around his injured hand. It was far too bulky to be used as an appropriate bandage, but as long as he kept it tight, he figured it would stop the bleeding.

Feeling discouraged, Newkirk sat down heavily on the bed. _So much for that,_ he sighed, looking down at the ceramic mess he'd created. He began shoving the broken pieces of the plate with his foot, pushing them into a pile up against the end table. When he'd finished, he glanced over at the tray that was still sitting on the bed next to him. The food lying on it didn't look so appetizing anymore; the slice of ham had dried out, as well as the bread, and there were flies buzzing around it, periodically landing to have a feast of their own. Not that Newkirk had the slightest interest in eating anyway; the knots in his stomach had taken care of that. But he eyed the glass with longing, wishing now that he'd saved some of the water in it; there was no telling when Karl would bring him some more.

His hand had started throbbing, and he carefully unwrapped the pillow case to take a look. The white material closest to the wound was stained red, but the bleeding appeared to have slowed to a trickle, and after re-rolling the pillow case he wrapped his hand back up, keeping the clean side against the oozing wound.

Newkirk sighed and stared at the door, wishing for all the world he could just get up and walk out. He was still agonizing over what Karl might be doing to Hogan, and being trapped in that stall, unable to help the Colonel was eating him up inside. _Please don't hurt him_ , his mind cried out at Karl, and then to Hogan, _ah, gov'nor, I wish to bloody hell there was something I could do…_ But he was stuck, and he knew it. The only option he had for now was to wait for Karl to return, and try to figure out a way to talk the German into letting him see Hogan.

* * *

The prisoners had barely been dismissed following evening roll call when Kinch, Carter and LeBeau headed down into the tunnel, preparing themselves to go out to look for their missing comrades. They changed into their black outfits to blend in better with the darkness, Carter and LeBeau also smearing grease paint on their faces.

"Now remember, once we get outside the camp, keep your eyes open for guards, we don't want to get caught," Kinch said, glancing between Carter and LeBeau.

"Don't worry, mon ami, we will be careful," LeBeau assured him.

Carter nodded in agreement. "Yeah, it's not like we've never done this before. It'll be a piece of pie."

Neither Kinch nor LeBeau had the heart to correct him.

"All right, let's go." Kinch led the way down the tunnel and climbed up the ladder that led through the hollow tree stump. When he got up top, he kept the lid low until after the searchlights swept past, then quickly climbed out and ducked behind some nearby bushes. LeBeau went next, squatting down next to Kinch after exiting the tree stump, followed lastly by Carter.

The three men held their positions until the searchlights had swept past one more time. Then Kinch signaled to the other two and they headed out into the forest. Kinch took the lead, following the path the colonel and Newkirk would most likely have taken to the previous night's rendezvous with the Underground agents.

They took their time, keeping their footfalls as noiseless as possible while scrutinizing the path and surrounding area, looking for anything out of the ordinary. At one point they heard a rustling in the trees off to their left and froze, fearing it might be one of the guards out searching for the two missing prisoners. But after a moment an antlered head shot up from the leaves it had been munching on and, sensing the men's presence, the deer bolted, taking off through the trees, flicking its tail as it ran.

The men glanced at each other, sharing a quiet sigh of relief. Kinch returned to the trail, and they followed it the rest of the way without incident. Eventually they reached the abandoned barn where the previous night's meeting had taken place. After ducking inside, they took a quick look around to make sure they were alone. Finding no one, they regrouped near the door to discuss what their next plan of action should be.

"What now?" Carter was the first to speak up.

"Oui, what do we do now?" LeBeau repeated, "We haven't found a single trace of them!"

Kinch slowly shook his head. "Honestly, fellas," he replied, "I don't know. I thought we'd find something that would lead us to the colonel and Newkirk by now."

"Well, we know they made it here," Carter said, "And we know they were okay when they left. So somewhere between this barn and camp must be where they disappeared."

"We already know that, Carter," LeBeau rolled his eyes, "What we need to find out is, where did they disappear to?"

"Well, geez, how should I know, Louis?"

"Carter, why don't you go jump in a – "

"All right, guys, this isn't helping," Kinch intervened. "The only thing we can do now is go back to camp the way we came, and have another look along that trail. Maybe we missed something."

"Oui, you are right," LeBeau agreed with a frustrated sigh, "I just hope we find something on the way back."

"Me, too," Carter replied.

The men slipped out of the barn and headed back to camp, keeping doubly alert for any sign of what might have happened to Hogan and Newkirk. They hadn't gone far when Kinch stopped, turning to face the two men behind him. He pointed to the right of them and said quietly, "I think there's a clearing just beyond those trees. Let's go take a look."

LeBeau and Carter nodded, and the trio made their way over to the edge of the trees. They looked out over the field in front of them, noticing a large barn close by.

"Looks like a farm," Carter whispered.

"No, whatever gave you that idea?" LeBeau replied sarcastically.

Kinch, trying to ignore their comments, whispered loudly, "Maybe they were here; it was raining pretty hard last night. They could have run in there to get out of the rain."

"Then why didn't they come back to camp when in stopped?" LeBeau asked.

"Well, why don't we go ask the farmer who lives here if he's seen them?"

"Because, Carter," LeBeau frowned at him, "The farmer probably has a gun, and he wouldn't be very happy about seeing Allied prisoners of war on his doorstep."

"Louis's right," Kinch said, "Besides, if the colonel and Newkirk had used the barn, they wouldn't have been in there long enough to get caught. And even if they had, the farmer would have turned them over to the authorities by now."

"Well, we could still try asking him, couldn't we? I mean, he might not be all that bad…"

"Shh," Kinch whispered, raising his hand and pointing toward the barn. Carter and LeBeau looked where Kinch was pointing and noticed a faint light approaching the far end of the building. As the light reached the door on that side, the three men slunk quietly back behind the trees.

"C'mon," Kinch waved at them to follow and started back toward the trail.

"But," Carter began to protest.

"Carter, I really doubt that farmer's seen them," Kinch said, "And anyway, we can't afford to get caught out here dressed like this…" He tugged on the black shirt he was wearing.

"And I don't want to get shot," LeBeau added, falling in behind Kinch as he walked away.

Carter hesitated for a second or two, then he shrugged and hurried to catch up to LeBeau. The three men headed back to camp, successfully dodging any guards who might have been searching nearby, and slipped into the tunnels undetected.

While changing back into their uniforms, LeBeau muttered, "Well, that was a big disappointment." He looked at Kinch and sighed with frustration. "What do we do now?"

"I'll check with the Underground again," Kinch replied, "Maybe they've found out something."

"And if they haven't?"

Kinch let out a sigh of his own, "Then we'll try again tomorrow night."

* * *

It had grown very dark in the stall, the sun having set hours ago. Newkirk had moved the tray off the bed and was lying on his back, staring up into the darkness. He'd begun to wonder if Karl was ever going to return, which had set off a whole new string of worrisome thoughts running through his mind; what was he supposed to do if Karl decided to abandon him? He couldn't leave, not with the chain still attached to his ankle. He had no water, no food – well, nothing beyond the unappetizing leftovers sitting on the tray – and no way of contacting anyone. Oh, he could probably start yelling for help at some point, but who would hear him out here in the middle of nowhere?

No, he knew he couldn't get out of there by himself, and as much as Karl scared him, he was becoming more terrified at the thought of him never coming back.

Just when Newkirk's newfound fears began to take hold in earnest, he heard the barn door open and breathed a sigh of relief. He could hear someone walking toward the stall and noticed a tiny amount of light creeping in from underneath the stall door. As the footsteps came closer, the light grew brighter, until it stopped on the other side of the door. After a few seconds during which the sounds of jostling and something being set down on the ground could be heard, the door opened and Karl stood there, holding a lantern in one hand.

Newkirk sat up and blinked his eyes from the light that now flooded the room. "Thought you'd forgotten about me, mate," he said nervously.

"Oh, Kurt, I could never forget about you!" Karl smiled.

 _At least he's in a good mood,_ Newkirk thought _; I bloody well better keep him that way._

"I thought you might be hungry so I brought you…" Karl's gaze caught sight of the pillow case wrapped around Newkirk's hand and his eyes widened. "What happened?"

"Oh, right," Newkirk reached over with his right hand and unwrapped the material. "I had a bit of an accident," he explained, holding out his injured palm for Karl to see while flicking his gaze briefly to the broken plate on the ground. "Sorry about that."

Karl frowned and clucked his tongue. "Papi's not going to like that; he hates it when we break things."

"How is Papi?" Newkirk ventured to ask, desperate to know how Hogan was doing, but not wanting to set Karl off.

"Oh, you know... How he always is," Karl replied cryptically. His eyes lit up and he smiled. "Oh, that reminds me…" he set the lantern down on the ground and stepped outside the stall. He leaned down to pick something up, then straightened himself and returned to the room. "I brought you something to eat." He held out the tray he was holding, on which sat a bowl and another glass of water.

Newkirk stood up and walked over; grabbing the tray Karl was holding out to him. "Thanks mate," he said before bringing it back to the bed and setting it down. He sat down next to it and picked up the glass of water, this time drinking only half of it. After putting it back on the tray, he eyed the bowl, which appeared to contain some kind of soup.

"I made it myself," Karl announced proudly, "Go ahead, try it."

Newkirk picked up the bowl and the spoon which was lying next to it on the tray. He stuck the spoon into the bowl and examined the contents as he stirred; it looked like chicken broth with bits of meat in it, but the meat was definitely not chicken. "What's this, then?" he asked, scooping up a piece of meat with the spoon and holding it above the bowl.

"Pork, what else?" Karl replied, "You know I always cook it in chicken broth; it tastes better that way."

Newkirk remembered the pig Karl had led away that morning, and a slight shiver ran through him. "To be honest, mate, I'm not all that hungry," he said, setting the bowl back down on the tray.

"Oh, c'mon, at least try it," Karl pleaded.

Inwardly sighing, Newkirk picked up the bowl again and took a few spoonfuls of broth. It actually did have a nice, rich flavor, and he found himself eating quite a bit more than he'd planned to before setting it back down.

"See? I knew you'd like it!" Karl exclaimed happily.

An idea formed in Newkirk's mind and he said, "You're plannin' on giving some o' this soup to the Colonel – I mean, Papi, right?"

"Oh, yes," Karl replied, a playful grin forming on his face, "In fact, I'm going to take him some right now."

"Any chance I could come with you?" asked Newkirk, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

Karl's grin faded and he looked at him suspiciously. "Why?"

Scared he might get Karl mad again, Newkirk answered calmly, "I just haven't seen him in a while, that's all."

"He won't be happy to see you," Karl stated, "Not after the mess you made." He glanced at the broken plate on the ground and frowned. "And knowing him, he'll blame it on me; he always does."

"Then that's all the more reason to let me see him, don't you see?" Newkirk tried desperately to reason with him, "He can't blame you if I tell him it was my fault."

Karl appeared to contemplate it for a moment. Then he grinned again and said, "Maybe later, you eat now." he stepped out of the stall and as he shut the door, added, "I'll be back after I take care of Papi."

Newkirk heard him leave the barn, grateful he'd left the lantern in the stall, even though it was near the door – which meant out of reach. He stared at the flame flickering inside its glass prison, sighing with frustration that he hadn't been able to get Karl to take him to see the colonel. At least he knew Karl would return, and maybe next time he could talk him into it. For now he would have to content himself with the knowledge that Hogan was alive – although in what shape, only Karl knew.

* * *

Down in the cellar, the room occupied by Colonel Hogan had grown pitch black. It was nighttime, and what little light had been filtering in through the small window high up along the outside wall had faded long ago. Hogan's head hung downward, he had been dozing off and on throughout the evening hours. A noise suddenly startled him awake; it was the creak of the door being opened, followed by light streaming in through the outer room.

Hogan looked up to see Karl standing there, eyeing him with amusement. He was holding a tray in his hands, on which appeared to be a glass filled with water, as well as a bowl containing something hot – judging by the wisps of steam rising from it.

Karl walked over and set the tray down on the floor, next to the wall on the other side of the room where Newkirk's jacket lay. Then he moved behind Hogan and began untying the rope around his wrists. "If you try anything, you'll be sorry," he said as the rope fell away. He quickly pulled a pistol out of his pocket and aimed it at the colonel.

Hogan slowly brought his arms around, wincing at the movement. They were sore and practically numb from being tied behind his back for so long. As he massaged his forearms, attempting to bring some circulation back into his arms and hands, he got a good look at his wrists. They were extremely chafed; covered with bruises and blood-specked angry red rings where the rope had rubbed tightly against them.

Karl had meanwhile circled around Hogan, coming to stand in front of the open door. He pointed with his free hand at the tray and said, "I brought you some dinner."

Hogan rose to his feet, hanging on to the chair for support as a wave of dizziness overtook him. He held on, waiting until it passed, and until he knew his legs wouldn't buckle under him. He let go of the chair and looked at Karl, replying in a raspy voice, "I'd like to know where Newkirk is, first."

Karl shook his head. "Eat first, then we can talk."

Hogan wasn't feeling particularly hungry, but he was very thirsty, and he eyed the glass of water with longing. _Maybe if I humor him, he'll tell me where Newkirk is,_ he thought as he moved over to the tray and, placing one hand on the wall for support, leaned down and picked up the glass of water. He straightened up and brought it to his lips, drinking it all down, closing his eyes in relief as he felt the cool water sooth his parched, aching throat.

As Hogan leaned down once again to return the empty glass to the tray, Karl said, "You can sit down on the floor."

"I'd rather stand," replied Hogan gruffly.

"Well, I want you to sit," Karl stated, aiming the end of the pistol down at the floor briefly and then back up to Hogan.

Hogan complied, sinking down to the floor while keeping his hand against the wall, sliding it down as he lowered himself. When he was seated, he glanced up at Karl, who gestured to the bowl.

Hogan reached over and picked it up, along with the spoon that lay next to it. He stared into the bowl and saw what looked like soup; chicken broth, he guessed, judging from the color and aroma, with chunks of some kind of meat floating around in it.

"Well, go ahead," Karl urged him.

Hogan dipped the spoon in and scooped up some of the broth. He sipped at it, noting that it did indeed taste like chicken broth. He took a couple more spoonfuls of the broth, avoiding the meat altogether; then he set the utensil in the bowl and looked up at Karl. "Now will you tell me where Newkirk is?" he asked, his voice sounding a little stronger.

Karl smiled; that look of mischievous glee back in his eyes. He pointed to the bowl and exclaimed, "He's right in front of you!"

Hogan stared blankly at him for a moment. Then his jaw dropped, his eyes widening in abject horror as he realized what Karl was implying. He threw the bowl at the tray as if it were on fire and scrambled backwards, stopping when he bumped up against the far wall of the room. He felt his stomach lurch and he leaned forward, retching onto the floor directly in front of him.

 _Oh God!_ Hogan's mind reeled, _Oh, God, it can't be! Oh, please, God, no…_

Karl stood in the doorway, laughing. Then he turned and walked out, shutting the door behind him, this time remembering to lock it.

Once the door closed, Hogan was plunged into darkness, terror engulfing him as the knowledge of what Karl had tried to feed him swam in his head. The smell of his own vomit rose up, assaulting his nose, and he had to fight to keep from adding to it. He was breathing heavily, his heart pounding in his chest, and now his body started to shake uncontrollably. He drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around his legs, pressing himself back against the wall as tightly as he could.

Hogan sat there, trying to get a grip on himself, trying to get his thoughts under control, but the terror wouldn't let go. The only thing that kept running through his head was, _Oh, God, no…_ Over and over, like a broken record.


	5. Crime and Punishment

Crime and Punishment

Newkirk sat on the bed, studying his injured hand in the low light being given off by the lantern near the door of the stall. The bleeding had long since stopped, and the edges of the wound were scabbed over. It didn't look like the puncture went too deep, but his palm was sore, especially when he tried to close his hand.

Sighing, he rested his hand on his lap and went back to watching the flame flickering inside the lantern. He still wished he could have convinced Karl to take him to see Hogan, but at least he knew the German would be back soon, and he'd just have to try again. _Blimey, I hope the gov'nor's all right,_ he thought worriedly _, just wish I knew what that ruddy bloke's been doin' to him._

The door to the barn opened, and Newkirk heard footsteps walking towards his stall. After grabbing the latch and pulling the stall door open, Karl stepped inside, a smile on his face. "All done," he announced, which Newkirk took to mean he'd given Hogan his dinner.

Deciding to take a chance on Karl's good mood, Newkirk asked politely, "Now will you take me to see Colonel Hoga – I mean, Papi?"

Just like that, the smile was gone. "Why do you want to see him so badly?"

 _Oh, bugger, he's so ruddy unpredictable._ Newkirk lowered his eyes, trying to look humble. "Well, I just thought that –"

"You haven't even finished your soup," Karl interrupted him, staring at the bowl on the tray which sat next to Newkirk on the bed.

Newkirk glanced over at the half empty bowl. "I ate what I could," he replied. When he looked back at Karl, he noticed something change in the man's eyes; a darkness passing over them, appearing to settle there as Karl frowned, a stern expression overtaking his face.

"We don't waste food in this house," he stated, pointing to the bowl. "Finish it."

Karl's apparent mood shift sent a stab of fear through Newkirk. _Better do as he says,_ he thought as he picked up the bowl and spoon and stirred the contents inside, his stomach turning slightly at the sight. The meat appeared to have lost its color, and the broth had turned cloudy. He brought a spoonful of the broth to his lips and took a sip, but it was cold and tasted like salty chicken fat. He made a face and set the spoon back into the bowl. "Sorry, mate, I'm just not hungry."

"Sorry's no excuse." Karl glanced around the stall, his frown deepening when he caught sight of the tray he'd brought that morning, along with the expired food that sat on top of it. "More wasted food!" he exclaimed, pointing at the tray. His gaze then darted to the broken plate next to the end table and his expression grew angry. "What a mess you've made! Clean up this room, now!"

 _Cor, what's got into him? He's acting like…_ The knot in Newkirk's stomach twisted and he forced himself not to finish that thought. Keeping a wary eye on Karl, he sunk to his knees, grabbing the breakfast tray and sliding it over to where the pieces of the broken plate were piled. With a careful hand he picked them up and set them on top of the tray; then he rose to his feet while holding on to the tray and, stepping as far as the chain would reach, held it out to Karl.

Karl snatched it out of his hand and turned around, taking the tray out of the stall and setting it down on the ground. He returned a moment later and held out his hand for the other tray. Newkirk handed it over, having grabbed it while Karl was taking care of the other one. Karl set that one outside the stall as well, after which he returned to the small room, fixing a stern gaze on Newkirk.

"You need to be punished," he stated, "It's the only way you'll learn."

Alarm bells started going off in Newkirk's head. _Oh, bloody hell, what now?_

"Take off your shirt."

Newkirk's eyebrows shot up. "What? I'm not goin' to –"

"You heard me, take off your shirt, now!" Karl shouted.

Newkirk hesitated, warring with himself on whether or not to do what Karl said. But then his thoughts turned to the colonel and he knew he didn't dare aggravate Karl too much; the man might take it out on Hogan. Reluctantly he removed his turtleneck; grabbing the bottom hem and pulling it over his head, leaving him standing there in his sleeveless t-shirt. The cool night air hit his exposed skin, and he shivered.

Karl held out his hand. "Give it to me."

Newkirk tossed his shirt over, his fear escalating at what Karl was planning to do to him. _Blimey, there's got to be a way to talk some ruddy sense into him. Maybe if I apologize..._

"Look, mate, I'm sorry about the mess. I promise I'll be more careful –"

"It's too late for that," Karl cut him off, setting Newkirk's shirt down near the stall door. "Don't think of going anywhere; I'll be right back." He walked away, heading toward the other side of the barn.

 _Cor, where the bloody hell does he think I'll go with this ruddy chain 'round me ankle?_ Newkirk shook his head. _And what's he plannin' on doing, anyway?_ He heard Karl coming back and the knot in his gut tightened.

Karl entered the room carrying a length of rope in one hand. "Hold out your arms," he barked.

Newkirk swallowed hard. "This really isn't necessary, mate. I told you, I won't –"

"Do it!" Karl shouted angrily.

Newkirk raised his arms, holding them out in front of him with his wrists together.

Karl stepped forward slowly, watching Newkirk's every move. "If you try anything, you'll only make things worse," he threatened. "Besides, I don't have the key to the chain on me, so you'll still be stuck in here."

Newkirk held still, knowing Karl had him on that. As the man moved in and began to tie the rope around his wrists, Newkirk decided to speak up. "Look, I don't care what you bloody do to me, but please, let Colonel Hogan go."

"Be quiet," Karl snapped at him while concentrating on tying the rope securely.

"At least let me see him," Newkirk pleaded, growing desperate.

Karl finished and stepped back near the door, his face screwed up in anger. "I said be quiet!" he yelled, "I'm sick of hearing how much you love Papi! You were always his favorite! That's why you left; because he told you to, and you always do what he says!"

Karl reached behind the doorway and grabbed something. When he brought his hand back, Newkirk's eyes widened to see him holding a whip. Karl gripped the handle, raised it up, and with lightning speed, sent the end of it sailing through the air straight at Newkirk.

Before he could even react, Newkirk felt a sting on his face and blinked furiously; the end of the whip had caught the side of his right cheek, slicing into the tender skin and missing his eye by mere inches. The whip cracked again and Newkirk instinctively threw his arms up to protect his face just as the leather strip raked across his arm, leaving a red trail behind.

Karl kept at it, whipping Newkirk repeatedly, leaving welts across his arms, all the while yelling; "You left me here, all alone with him! How could you leave me? You were the only one I ever loved, the only one who was ever nice to me, and you left! You left because of him! And then he got mean, and he took it out on me! Why? Why did you leave? Why?"

By now Newkirk had turned around and the whip was striking his back, slicing through the thin material of his t-shirt and cutting into the flesh underneath. His back was becoming a patchwork of angry red lines, but it was better than having the business end of the whip angling toward his face. Throughout the ordeal, Newkirk hadn't remained silent; groaning loudly each time he was hit. But every so often the whip would strike him across his side, curling around his midsection and slicing across part of his abdomen, and he would cry out in pain.

Newkirk wanted desperately to get out of range of that whip, but there was nowhere to go. His wrists were still tied tightly together, which limited how much he could do to protect himself. An idea came to him, and he waited until he felt the whip hit his back again, then whirled around and, as Karl sent the end sailing at him, he reached up and managed to catch it between his hands. But Karl yanked it forcefully away, and as it slid out of his grasp it ripped open the wound on his hand, causing it to start bleeding again.

"Bloody stop it!" Newkirk yelled, once again holding his arms up to ward off the next blow from hitting his face. When he didn't feel anything, he lowered his arms slightly and peered warily at his attacker.

Karl just stood there, holding the handle of the whip against his side, his face filled with anguish. He tossed the whip behind him, letting it land on the ground just outside the stall. Then he leaned down and picked up Newkirk's shirt and the lantern and stepped back, after which he closed the stall door and headed out of the barn.

Newkirk, now plunged into darkness, backed up slowly until he bumped up against the bed. He sat down heavily, groaning at the pain from the welts on his back that the movement caused. His wrists had already become irritated from being tied so tightly together and he tugged at the rope, trying unsuccessfully to loosen it enough to slip his hands free. It didn't help that his hands were now slippery with the blood oozing out of his injured palm. Frustrated, he dropped his arms onto his lap, groaning again when the lash marks on his arms landed on his legs. _Blimey, I'm a right mess,_ he sighed, and then his terror returned and his stomach lurched in fear. _If Karl's doin' this to me, what the bloody hell has he been doin' to the gov'nor?_

* * *

After Karl left the barn, he headed straight for the building he used for butchering the pigs. When he got inside, he set both the lantern and Newkirk's shirt on top of the work table and leaned down to grab the bucket that was sitting on the floor next to the table. He opened up the bottom of the shirt and proceeded to stuff the contents of the bucket inside; filling it with the intestines from the pig he had killed earlier that morning. When he was done, he set the bucket back down and extinguished the lantern.

There was just enough light filtering in through the windows for him to see the outline of the bulging shirt on the table. Karl grabbed each end of the shirt, bunching them closed to keep the contents from escaping; then he headed out of the building and towards the house, letting the moonlight guide his path.

He reached the house and went inside, making his way across the living room and down to the cellar. After carefully laying the shirt down on the floor, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the key. He unlocked the door and opened it, then bent down and picked up the shirt.

Hogan was still leaning up against the far wall, his knees bent, his arms wrapped around his legs. He looked toward the door as it opened, blinking a few times from the sudden light pouring into the room. He watched as Karl entered, carrying something in his hands.

"You made me do this," Karl stated, holding the object out for Hogan to see, "I didn't want to do it, but you made me."

Hogan immediately recognized Newkirk's shirt, which appeared to have something stuffed inside of it, and his heart dropped, his eyes growing wide with terror. "What did you do?" he managed to say in a gruff, wavering voice.

Tears started falling down Karl's cheeks, and he threw the shirt on the ground, directly on top of Newkirk's jacket which still lay in the corner. The bottom of the shirt opened up, and the intestines spilled out, oozing across the jacket and onto the floor.

Hogan blanched, staring wide-eyed at the gruesome sight, his terror taking hold, gripping him tightly. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but all that came out was a guttural moan.

"You made me do it!" Karl cried out, "It's your fault!" He turned around and stepped out of the room, sobbing as he shut and locked the door behind him.

The darkness enveloped Hogan once again. He worked his jaw for a moment, still trying to get words out, but the horror overtook him, and his head started swimming. He closed his eyes and then passed out, falling over onto his side, his mind unwilling to process what he'd just seen. Somewhere deep down he welcomed the relief of unconsciousness; it was his only escape from Karl's house of horrors.

* * *

Dawn arrived and Hogan slept, stretched out on the floor next to the far wall in the tiny room down in the cellar. As the sun began to creep up into the sky, light filtered in through the window high above. Hogan stirred slightly; then dropped back into a dreamless sleep, his weary mind not ready to handle reality just yet.

But reality had other plans. The door opened and in walked Karl carrying a glass of water in his hand. He set it down next to Hogan and shoved him with his foot. "Get up," he ordered tersely, "You've been drinking again."

Hogan slowly blinked his eyes open to find himself staring at a glass of water sitting on the floor about a foot from his face. He also noticed a pair of boots slinking backwards, towards the door. His gaze traveled up to see the owner of the boots staring back at him with irritation.

"Did you hear what I said? Get up!"

Hogan shifted, pushing himself slowly up from the floor until he was sitting, his legs stretched out in front of him. He eyed the glass of water with disinterest; his mind still trying to catch up to the fact that he was awake. Somewhere deep inside he knew he was thirsty, but his thoughts were too muddled for him to want to do anything about it.

Karl was talking, so Hogan looked up at him, forcing himself to pay attention.

"—always getting drunk at night, making me take care of everything around here by myself. Well, I'm tired of it! You're the one who sent Kurt away, you're the reason he's not coming back, so you can take care of this place yourself! I don't have to stay here anymore, I'm an adult now. Maybe I'll go find a job somewhere else, and you can stay here and drink yourself to death for all I care!"

A frown appeared on Hogan's face. _What's he talking about?_

"Don't yell at me!" Karl shouted, now glaring at the empty chair in the room, "I don't have to listen to you anymore! You're the one who should have died; not Kurt, you!" He covered his face with his hands and started sobbing; then he turned and ran out of the room, closing and locking the door before disappearing upstairs.

Hogan stared after him, still not sure what he'd been yelling about. He looked at the glass of water again and decided he might as well drink it. After picking it up and draining the glass, he set it back down next to him on the floor. He started to glance around the room when, out of the corner of his eye there appeared a flash of blue and he quickly shut his eyes tight.

Keeping them closed, he lay back down on the floor and curled up with his back to the wall. After a few minutes, he fell into a dreamless sleep once again.

* * *

It was almost noon and Newkirk lay on his left side on the bed, staring at the door to the stall. Sometime after Karl had left him there in the dark, he had managed to pull the blanket over himself and eventually dozed off, but it was a fitful sleep at best. Every time he tried to move, the whip marks on his body stung, and he could tell his t-shirt had adhered to the wounds on his back. His hand had stopped bleeding shortly after he'd stretched out on the bed, but his shirt was covered with red splotches and his wrists were chafed from the rope rubbing on them during his many attempts to get his hands free.

 _I'll say one thing for the bloke; he knows how to tie a ruddy knot._ Newkirk rotated his hands and tugged at the rope again until his wrists started to burn. _Blimey, why did he have to tie me hands together, anyway?_ He thought for a moment and frowned. _So I couldn't grab the ruddy whip and pull it away from him, I'd wager. 'Course, I did manage to grab the bloody thing, didn't I? Just wish I could've held on…_

Newkirk shifted on the bed and winced. _Ow, me back!_ He shifted the other way, rolling onto his arm, and sucked in his breath, wincing again. _Ow, me arm!_ He let out a sigh of frustration and went back to staring at the door.

 _So, when's he comin' back?_ Newkirk thought, his fear of being left there to die starting to take over again, coupled with the dread over what Karl might be doing to Hogan. _Ah, gov', I wish I could get out of this bloody barn and help you..._

Newkirk heard the barn door open and struggled to sit up, groaning at the pain radiating across his back. He let the blanket fall from his shoulders; not wanting to twist around to grab it – he knew how much it would hurt his back if he tried. Besides, the air had warmed up over the course of the morning, so he didn't need it anymore.

The door to the stall opened and Karl stood there, a somber, hollow expression on his face. Newkirk's alarm bells started going off again, and he debated whether or not he should speak up. He didn't want to set him off again, but the look on his face terrified him. In the end he decided it would be best to wait until Karl spoke first.

Karl just stood there staring at Newkirk for a few moments. "He's dead, you know," he stated at last, his voice devoid of emotion. "I killed him."

Newkirk's eyes widened, his gut twisting in fear. His thoughts immediately flew to Hogan and he asked in a shaky voice, "You did what?"

Karl ignored the question and started rambling, "After Kurt left, he became mean, yelling at me all the time, saying he wished I could be more like my brother. Then, when we found out what happened…" he paused, swallowing hard, "He wouldn't stop drinking. He got worse; making me do all the work around here, telling me how worthless I was, telling me he wished it would have been me instead of Kurt…"

Karl lowered his eyes, staring at a spot on the ground in the middle of the stall. "So I decided I would leave, start a new life for myself. When I told him, he became angry, said I'd never be able to do anything on my own. I got so angry that I pulled out my gun and I shot him." He looked back up at Newkirk, his eyes filled with pain. "I didn't mean to hurt him, but he wouldn't stop… I just wanted him to stop… I… I killed my Papi."

 _Blimey…_ Newkirk stared at him for a few seconds. "What about Colonel Hogan?" he asked at last, "Is he…?" He stopped, afraid to finish the question.

"He's still alive," Karl answered, and Newkirk let out the breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding. "But he won't be for long," Karl continued, "And neither will you." He reached into his pocket and took out his gun, pointing it at Newkirk.

Newkirk sucked in his breath, his gut tightening again. "You don't have to do this, mate."

"I'm sorry, but I can't let you or your friend live; now that you know."

"We won't tell anyone, I promise!"

Karl shook his head. "I can't take that chance. I'm leaving here to start a new life, and I don't want anyone to come looking for me."

"Please don't do this!" Newkirk desperately pleaded, "At least let Colonel Hogan go!"

"I'm sorry," Karl repeated and clicked the safety off, "I'm really sorry…"


	6. A Twist of Fate

A/N: I'd just like to say thanks to those of you who are reading this story; I hope you are enjoying it so far. And thank you for all the reviews; I appreciate them so much! A special thanks goes out to willwrite4fics, for all the encouragement and help in answering my questions. And now, on with the story…

* * *

A Twist of Fate

"Any news?" LeBeau asked as Kinch climbed out from the false-bottom bunk and walked over to the common area table.

"Nope," Kinch answered, plopping down at the end of the table near the stove, "The Underground hasn't found any sign of them."

"Oh, mon ami, where could they be?" LeBeau turned his head back to the pot he was stirring on the stove. "They're going to miss lunch again," he murmured to himself.

"Well, I still say they have to be somewhere," Carter piped up from his bunk where he sat, diligently attempting to untangle a mass of yarn and wind it into a ball. He glanced up at Kinch and asked, "Are we still going out to look for them again tonight?"

Kinch nodded. "Yeah... In fact, I'd like to take another look at that farm we passed. Maybe we _should_ try asking that farmer if he's seen them."

LeBeau set the lid on the pot and walked over, taking a seat opposite Kinch. "But what if he shoots at us?" he asked, sounding worried.

A grin formed on Kinch's face. "He won't if he thinks you and Carter are German guards looking for two escaped prisoners."

Carter's eyes lit up. "Hey, that's a great idea!"

"Oui, and we'll even blend in with the guards that are out looking for them!"

"Wait, you said me and LeBeau should dress up like guards." Carter frowned at Kinch and cocked his head to the side. "Aren't you coming with us?"

"Oh, I'll be with you guys," replied Kinch, "But I'll be wearing what I wore last night; it's easier to blend in with the dark."

"Why don't you want to dress like a guard?"

Kinch smirked at Carter. "Who's going to believe I'm in the German Army?"

"Oh, yeah," Carter nodded.

"Besides, I can act as lookout while you guys are talking to the farmer," Kinch added.

"Well, I just hope he knows something," LeBeau said, "We need to find the Colonel and Newkirk."

"Yeah," Carter agreed. "Boy, did you see how mad Klink was this morning? He's furious they haven't been found yet. I've never seen his face so red!"

"Yeah, and that's another thing," said Kinch, "If they don't come back soon, Hochstetter's bound to get involved, and that's gonna make things even more difficult."

LeBeau nodded. "Oui, Hochstetter will tear this camp apart." The lid on the pot suddenly rattled and the liquid inside began to boil over. "My soup!" he exclaimed, jumping up from the table and stepping quickly over to the stove.

Carter absently watched as LeBeau pulled the lid off the pot and stuck his spoon inside to stir the contents. "Boy, I sure wish I knew what happened to them," he said after a moment, glancing at Kinch.

"Me too, Carter," Kinch sighed. "I hope we find out tonight."

* * *

"Please, mate… Please don't do this," Newkirk stared fearfully at the gun Karl was pointing at him, his heart pounding in his chest.

"I'm really sorry," Karl replied as he started to squeeze the trigger.

A shadow fell across the ground behind Karl, and Newkirk's eyes widened with surprise as a voice called out, "What's going on?"

Karl whirled around, reflexively tightening his finger on the trigger and discharging the bullet into the tall figure now standing behind him.

The man's eyes flew wide, his right hand instinctively reaching up towards the growing red spot on his chest. His left arm was in a sling, and he was wearing a German Army sergeant's uniform.

He also bore a strong resemblance to Karl, and Newkirk recognized him immediately.

"Kurt!" Karl's jaw dropped and he stared incredulously at the man for a few seconds. "No! You can't be here! You're dead! You were killed by the Russians!"

Kurt glanced down at his chest, lifting his hand and peering underneath it. He looked back at Karl, surprise mixed with disbelief on his face. "You shot me!"

Realizing what he'd just done, Karl dropped the gun; his hands flying to his face. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it! Oh, Kurt, I didn't mean it!" The color drained from Kurt's face and his knees buckled. Karl reached out to grab him, lowering him to the ground as gently as he could.

All of this was happening just outside the open stall door, and Newkirk watched in shock, hardly believing what he was seeing.

Once Kurt was lying down on his back, Karl lifted his brother's hand and peered at the wound. It was bleeding heavily, and Karl quickly removed his jacket and balled it up, pressing it tightly against the wound. He felt Kurt's hand grab his wrist and he looked down at him, fighting the panic welling up inside. "Don't worry, you'll be all right, you have to be!"

"Who is that man?" Kurt asked, turning his head slightly and glancing in Newkirk's direction. "And why did you have a gun pointed at him?"

Karl swallowed hard. "Don't worry about him; I'll explain later when you're feeling better." A confused expression overtook his face. "I still don't understand. How…?"

"They made a mistake," Kurt replied weakly, "It was a different Kurt Fleischer that was killed two months ago. I was only wounded..." He stopped to cough, spitting up blood when he did. "I found out a few days ago that they sent the telegram to our Papi instead of the other Kurt's family, so when they discharged me from the hospital, I decided to come home and surprise you…" He coughed again, more forcefully this time, his mouth filling with blood.

"Oh, Kurt, please, you have to be all right…"

Kurt's grip loosened and his hand fell away from Karl's wrist. "Where is Papi?" he asked, his eyes beginning to glaze over.

"Papi? He's, um, he's…" Karl stammered; then his eyes grew wide with alarm when he realized Kurt had stopped breathing.

"No!" Karl shouted, grabbing Kurt's shoulders and shaking him roughly, "Wake up! You can't leave me!" He kept at it for a full minute, yelling, "Wake up! Wake up!" until it finally hit him that Kurt was gone.

"Nooo!" Karl wailed, collapsing over his brother's chest and sobbing uncontrollably.

Newkirk stared, wide-eyed, still trying to grasp what just happened. He felt like he should say something, but he had no idea what. He found himself feeling a little sorry for Karl; after all, he finally got his brother back – the one thing he wanted more than anything else in the whole world – and he accidentally shot him. But he felt sorrier for Kurt; to have survived the battlefront and come home, eager to surprise his family, only to be killed by his own brother. And now, of course, he'd never know that Karl had killed his Papi, too.

A new thought creeped into Newkirk's mind, and he felt his terror begin to grow; what was Karl going to do now? This was bound to push him over the edge. Would he finish the job he'd started before his brother had shown up to surprise him, only to be killed by his hand? Or would he decide to keep him and Hogan alive, dreaming up new tortures to perform on them in order to relieve his own anger and guilt? One thing Newkirk knew for sure; Karl wasn't going to let him or the colonel go.

Karl's sobs lessened and he raised his head at last. He looked down at Kurt's face, an anguished moan escaping his lips. He reached up and placed his hand on his brother's cheek and, with tears still streaming down his face, he murmured softly, "Oh, Kurt, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it, please, please forgive me…"

Karl's voice trailed off and he sat there for a few more moments, staring at Kurt's lifeless face, his hand gently cupping his older brother's cheek. Then he pulled his hand back, rose slowly to his feet and, his face twisting in agony, he turned and ran out of the barn, not sparing even one glance behind him.

Newkirk heard the barn door shut behind Karl, and wondered where he was going. The thought of him doing something to Hogan while consumed by his grief crossed his mind, and the knot in his gut twisted. But the fact that Karl hadn't looked at him before leaving the barn, hadn't closed the stall door, hadn't even picked up the gun, most likely meant that he was going someplace to be alone for a while – someplace he could grieve in private. At least, that's what Newkirk hoped.

For now, Newkirk was stuck in the stall, with a clear view of Kurt's body stretched out on the ground. _Poor bloke,_ he thought, lowering his eyes and shaking his head, _not the homecoming he was ruddy hopin' for, was it?_ Still, Newkirk couldn't help feeling a little grateful to Kurt; after all, his appearance had inadvertently saved him from being killed by Karl – at least, for the time being.

* * *

The day wore on, and sometime in the afternoon Hogan stirred and opened his eyes. He was still in the room in the cellar, and as he pushed himself up to a sitting position he couldn't help noticing the stench that had filled the room. The stale vomit which sat nearby on the floor, coupled with the odor of decaying flesh coming from the corner near the door made his stomach turn. He sighed heavily and forced himself to look at the pile of gore, swallowing the bile back down his throat as he did.

 _Come on, Rob, pull yourself together! You've seen dead bodies before._ He closed his eyes and shook his head. Not like this; not this gruesome, not this… personal. _Like that soup…_ His eyes darted to the other corner, catching sight of the upended bowl and he shuddered. _God, Newkirk, if that's really you…_ He reached up and buried his face in his hands. _How could I have let this happen? I'm supposed to protect you…_ He dropped his hands back into his lap and stared dully out into the room. _This is my fault;_ _I let you down. I'm so sorry…_ A vision swam in his head; Newkirk lying on a table, lifeless eyes staring into space, Karl slicing open his abdomen and removing the contents inside…

 _No!_ His mind yelled, _that didn't happen; it's a trick!_

"Are you sure?" A small voice inside him replied.

 _It has to be, no one's that sick and twisted!_

"Oh, come on, Rob, you've seen enough in this war to know what men are capable of. Men who are evil and twisted enough to kill one of your men and eviscerate –"

 _Stop it!_ Hogan closed his eyes and covered his ears. _It's not him! It's not Newkirk!_

"And if it is?"

Anger welled up in him, a white hot fury, directed solely at Karl. _Then I'll kill him; with my bare hands, if necessary._

"Unless he kills you first…"

Hogan glanced over at the ghastly pile once more. _If that's really what's left of Newkirk, then I deserve it._ His anger suddenly deflated, and he felt a weariness fall over him like a huge weight. He lay back down on his side, closed his eyes, and soon slipped into a dead sleep.

* * *

Afternoon turned into evening, and Newkirk was becoming concerned, wondering when Karl would return. After the sun set and it grew dark, he began to worry more. By the time the day had neared its end, he was beginning to panic. _Blimey, it's been dark for hours! Must be goin' on to midnight by now… Where the bloody hell is he?_ It didn't help that he was stuck there in the pitch dark with a dead body only yards away.

Newkirk shifted on the bed, leaning down to grab part of the chain near his ankle. He tugged hard on it, inwardly knowing he couldn't pull it from the metal ring where it was anchored, but he was becoming desperate by now. The lash marks on his back stung from the movement and his injured hand throbbed, but he paid no attention to them. When the end of the chain didn't budge, he sighed in frustration and let go, sitting back up on the bed.

The rope around his wrists had rubbed them raw by now, and he brought his hands up to his mouth, biting down on it, trying to tear it apart with his teeth. But it was a futile endeavor; the rope was too thick for him to chew his way through it.

 _He did it,_ Newkirk's mind wailed, _the ruddy bastard did it! He left me here to rot…_

A faint noise reached his ears, and Newkirk strained to listen. It was coming from the opposite end of the barn, near the door he and Hogan had entered when they'd been seeking shelter from the thunderstorm. He listened hard, and his eyebrows rose. _Either me mind's playing bloody tricks on me, or that sounds like whispering…_

On the other side of the door, there was indeed whispering going on. "I still say Carter and I should march up to the house and wake him up," LeBeau hissed.

"You will, Louis," Kinch whispered back, "But if he's asleep, what's the harm in checking out the barn, first?"

LeBeau placed his hand on Kinch's arm. "But what if he's in there?"

"Why would he sleep in the barn?" questioned Carter.

Kinch rolled his eyes. "Look, fellas, we're already here, let's just go in." He reached over and eased open the door, inwardly wincing when a loud creak emanated from the hinges.

Newkirk heard the door open and held his breath; his heart pounding in his ears. Footsteps entered the barn, and he could tell there was more than one set of them. A light appeared, the beam from a flashlight, and as it swung back and forth, a familiar voice reached his ears; "I don't see anything, do you?"

Newkirk's eyes widened and he let out the breath he'd been holding. "Carter!" he called out excitedly, "Is that you, mate?"

"Newkirk!" Carter shouted back, "Where are you?"

"I'm in here! In one of the bloomin' stalls, about halfway down…" Two more beams joined the one already shining in Newkirk's direction, and he said loudly, "Is Kinch with you?"

"Yep," Kinch replied, his voice closer now, "And LeBeau's here, too."

Newkirk smiled and breathed a huge sigh of relief. "Blimey, you have no idea how glad I am to hear your voices!" As the footsteps neared the stall, he called out, "Watch your step, mates; there's a dead bloke on the ground in front of me."

The beams from the flashlights landed on Kurt, and Newkirk heard LeBeau gasp. "In here," Newkirk said, and the beams of light changed direction and fell on him. He heard a few more gasps and had to squint until they moved their lights out of his face.

"Holy cats," Kinch was the first to speak, "What the hell happened to you?"

Carter's mouth fell open. "Geez, buddy, you're all cut up!"

"Mon Dieu!" LeBeau exclaimed, starting to sway on his feet.

"Now, don't go passin' out on me, Louis," said Newkirk, "'Sides, it's not as bad as it looks."

"I don't know, Newkirk, it looks pretty bad," Kinch remarked, taking stock of the Englishman's wounds. In addition to the marks on his arms, he had one on his cheek as well, which looked slightly puffy. He also noticed the blood stains on his shirt and hands, and his wrists looked raw from the rope tied around them. He drew his flashlight down, and his eyes widened at the chain attached to Newkirk's ankle. "Looks like they didn't want you going anywhere," he muttered, anger lacing his voice.

"So, who's the dead guy on the ground?" asked Carter, "And where's the colonel?"

Newkirk's eyebrows shot up. _The gov'nor!_ "I'll explain everything later, mates. The colonel's in the house, down in the cellar. You have to go get him –"

"After we get you out of here," Kinch cut in.

Newkirk shook his head. "No, Kinch, you have to get him out of there now! Karl, he's the bloke, what did this to me, he's been keepin' the gov'nor down there, and I don't know what he's ruddy been doin' to him…"

Kinch's face filled with concern. "All right, but I'll leave Andrew and Louis here to get you free, then you can meet me at the house."

Kinch turned to leave, when Newkirk added, "Be careful, mate, I don't know where Karl's gone off to."

Kinch nodded; then he took off across the barn.

Newkirk looked up at Carter and LeBeau. "Either of you gents got a knife on you?" he asked, holding up his wrists.

"Oh, I do," Carter replied, bending down and pulling a small knife from his boot. He straightened up and began to cut the rope wrapped around Newkirk's wrists.

Newkirk eyed LeBeau and Carter curiously. "What's with the German uniforms?"

"Well, we were going to talk to the farmer, you know, ask him if he'd seen you guys," Carter explained as he worked on the rope. "But when we got here, everything was dark, so Kinch decided we should check out the barn first." He finished cutting through the rope, and it fell away.

"Thanks, mate," Newkirk said, rubbing his wrists, "Now for the ruddy chain on me leg…" He glanced down at his ankle, then back up at LeBeau and Carter. "There's got to be a bloomin' key 'round here somewhere."

"Oui, I will go look for it," LeBeau volunteered, glad to have something to do to take him away from the sight of all that blood on Newkirk. He hurried out of the stall, giving Kurt's body a wide berth, and began to shine his flashlight around, looking for some place in the barn where the keys might be kept.

Back in the stall, Carter asked, "So, what happened to the rest of your uniform?"

Newkirk shrugged. "Wish I knew, Andrew."

"Why did that guy – Karl, was it?"

Newkirk nodded.

"Why did Karl chain you up out here, anyway?"

"It's a long story," Newkirk sighed. "I'll tell you when we get 'round to the house."

"Found it!" LeBeau yelled from across the barn. He practically ran back to the stall, once again sidestepping Kurt's body, and held out a large ring full of keys. "I bet it's one of these."

"Here, let me," Newkirk reached up with his uninjured hand and took the ring from LeBeau. He searched through them, quickly finding the one he was sure would fit the lock on the manacle around his ankle. As he bent down to try it, he heard both Carter and LeBeau gasp.

"Geez, Newkirk, your back is a mess!"

"Oh, I think I am going to faint!" LeBeau began to lean dangerously toward Carter.

"Oh, don't do that," Carter grabbed him and turned him around so he wasn't looking at Newkirk. He held on to the Frenchman while Newkirk worked on removing the chain. Luckily – or more likely, due to the Englander's knowledge of locks – it was the right key. The manacle popped open and Newkirk removed it from around his ankle.

"Blimey, it feels good to get that ruddy thing off!" Newkirk exclaimed happily. He stood up and held out his hand to Carter. "Mind if I take that?" he asked, looking at the flashlight.

"Be my guest," replied Carter, passing it over to him.

Newkirk took the flashlight and shined it out of the stall. "Right then, it's off to the house." After two days of being held prisoner, he stepped out of the tiny room at last and, after waving at Carter and LeBeau to follow, led the way through the barn and out the door, quickening his pace when he got outside. As he headed toward the house, his anxiety quickly rose over what he might find once he got there, and a single thought filled his mind; _blimey, gov', I hope you're all right._


	7. Out of Sight, Not Out of Mind

A/N: Sorry it took me a little longer than usual to post a new chapter; I hope you enjoy it. I will be out of town for a while, but will update as soon as I can once I return; hopefully it won't be longer than two weeks.

* * *

Out of Sight, Not Out of Mind

While Carter and LeBeau were helping Newkirk in the barn, Kinch had sprinted to the house, on a mission to find Hogan. He reached the door and tried the knob; surprised to find it unlocked. After opening the door, he entered the house quietly, listening for any sign of movement. Hearing none, he pulled his gun out of his pocket and, holding it at the ready, turned on the light.

Kinch stood there for a moment, his eyes darting around the room, but there was no one there. He walked down the hallway, glancing back and forth, and came upon a door just past the kitchen. When he opened it, he saw steps that led down to the cellar and, after turning on the cellar light, he quickly climbed down. He looked around the large open space, his eyes lighting on a door at the end of the cellar. When he reached it, he noticed it was locked.

Kinch raised his hand and knocked loudly on the door, calling out, "Colonel? Are you in there?" He received no answer so he tried again; still nothing. Frowning, he turned around and ran back upstairs, glancing around for something he could use to open the door. As luck would have it, he spied a key lying on the kitchen table. Mentally crossing his fingers, Kinch picked up the key and ran back down into the cellar. He put the key in the lock and turned; sighing in relief when it opened.

Kinch grabbed the knob and opened the door, his nose crinkling at the smell that greeted him. "Colonel?" he said into the dark room and reached over for the light switch. Finding none, he opened the door all the way to let the brightness from the cellar light up the room. His gaze immediately fell on a figure stretched out next to the far wall, and he gasped. "Colonel!"

Hogan stirred at the sound of a voice and opened his eyes, squinting at the light shining in from the cellar. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a moan. He tried again, his voice a hoarse whisper, "No, no more, don't show me any more…"

Hands grabbed him, helping him to sit up, and a familiar voice reached his ears.

"Colonel! What happened to you?"

"Kinch?" Hogan blinked his eyes at him, "Is that you?"

"Yes, sir, it's me, Kinch." He glanced around the room, his jaw dropping when he saw the gory mess in the corner spilling out of Newkirk's shirt. "What the hell?" was all he could say at first; then it quickly dawned on him what Karl had been doing to Hogan, and his eyes widened in shock. He looked back at the colonel and started to pull him gently to his feet. "Come on, sir, let's get you out of here."

Hogan grabbed hold of Kinch's arms, leaning into him as the tall man lifted him up. Once he was standing, his head started to swim and he felt himself swaying unsteadily, but Kinch held on to him and the dizziness passed.

The sound of footsteps climbing down the stairs and running across the cellar could be heard, and Newkirk burst into the room, Carter on his heels. Before LeBeau could set foot inside, Kinch turned his head towards the door and shouted, "Louis, don't come in here!"

"Gov'nor!" exclaimed Newkirk worriedly, moving over to where Kinch stood holding on to the colonel.

Hogan looked at him, his eyes widening in disbelief. "Newkirk?" he croaked out in a tiny voice.

"Yes, sir." His concern growing, Newkirk reached out and placed his hand on Hogan's shoulder. "What the bloody hell did Karl do to you?"

Hogan let go of Kinch and suddenly he had his arms wrapped around the Englishman. "God, Newkirk, it's really you," he muttered gruffly into Newkirk's ear. Blinking back tears, he tightened his grip; his face overcome with emotion.

Surprised, Newkirk returned the hug, thoroughly bewildered by Hogan's reaction. He looked at Kinch, whose expression had turned dark with anger and disgust. Kinch darted his eyes towards the corner, and Newkirk followed his gaze, his own eyes practically bugging out of their sockets when he saw what lay there. He opened his mouth, but all that came out was, "Blimey…"

Carter glanced over at the corner where Kinch and Newkirk were staring. "Hey, Newkirk, isn't that your shirt and jacket?" he asked, frowning. "And what's with the pig guts?" He shook his head. "Boy, what a mess. Why would that guy Karl throw all this stuff in here like that, anyway?"

"Don't you get it, Carter?" replied Kinch, anger and frustration sounding in his voice, "Karl was trying to make the colonel think Newkirk was dead."

LeBeau, who had overheard, called out from the other side of the doorway, "Mon Dieu!"

Carter stared at the pile of gore and his eyebrows shot up. "Oh! Well, that was a pretty rotten thing for him to do, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was," Kinch stated, still fighting to control his anger over what Karl had done; not only to Hogan, but Newkirk as well. He'd noticed the marks on the Englishman's back when Newkirk had stepped up to help Hogan, and it made his blood boil.

Newkirk slowly shook his head "Cor! I knew that ruddy bloke was crackers, but this…" He winced when Hogan, who was still clinging to him, inadvertently squeezed his lash-riddled back. "Easy there, sir, me back's a right mess," he said to him quietly.

Upon hearing Newkirk's comment, Hogan released him at last and, as his wits began to return, leaned back to look at him, his eyes narrowing at the sight of his injuries. "What the hell did Karl do to you?" he asked in a low, angry voice.

"Nothin' as bloody awful as what he did to you, Colonel," Newkirk replied, tossing another glance at the corner and shuddering at the gruesome sight.

"Uh, Colonel," Kinch said, "I think we should discuss this upstairs –"

"Kinch is right, sir," Newkirk cut in, "No sense standin' around down here in this bloody torture chamber."

Hogan nodded. "Yeah, let's get out of here." He took a few wobbly steps, but when Kinch reached over to help him, he waved him off. "I'm all right," he said and kept walking, his gait becoming steadier as he moved.

As the men were filing out of the room, Carter glanced at the mess in the corner and asked, "Hey, Newkirk, aren't you going to take your uniform?"

Newkirk stopped, looking at him, appalled. "Andrew, how can you even ask that?"

"Carter's right, we probably shouldn't leave it here," said Kinch.

"What?" Newkirk now looked aghast, "You're mad if you think I'm bloody goin' to pick it up with all that ruddy slop hangin' out of it!"

Carter rolled his eyes. "Geez, buddy, I'll get it for you."

Newkirk gestured to the pile with his hand. "Be my guest."

Carter stepped over and grabbed Newkirk's shirt, shaking the pig intestines out of it. Then he picked up the jacket that was underneath, balled up the two articles of clothing and tucked them under his arm.

Newkirk made a face. "How can you bloody touch that?"

"Oh, that's nothing," Carter said, "I grew up on a farm, remember? We butchered pigs all the time, so I'm used to handling pig guts and having to –"

"All right, Carter, that's enough," Hogan interrupted, starting to look a little green.

"Yes, sir," replied Carter meekly.

"Can we go, please?" LeBeau called out from the other side of the door, "This place gives me the creeps."

The four men headed out of the room and, catching up with LeBeau, walked across the cellar and climbed up the stairs. When they reached the kitchen, Hogan turned to look at Newkirk, a question popping into his head. "What happened to Karl?"

Newkirk shrugged. "He ran off hours ago, sir, there's no tellin' where the ruddy bastard's gone off to."

Hogan glanced around the room. "Has anyone checked upstairs?"

"Not yet, Colonel," Kinch answered.

Hogan began to sway slightly, his dizziness returning.

Alarmed, Kinch took his arm and guided him over to the kitchen table. "Uh, I think you better sit down, sir."

Hogan didn't argue. He sat down on the chair Kinch pulled out for him. "You, too," Kinch said, looking at Newkirk and pointing at a chair on the other side of the table.

Newkirk raised an eyebrow and took a seat. Kinch walked over and, grabbing two glasses, filled them with water from the tap and set them in front of Hogan and Newkirk.

"Drink this," he said, glancing between the two men, adding "Sir," when his gaze fell on Hogan. "Carter, LeBeau and I will check out the rest of the house."

"Yes, mum," Newkirk smirked.

The corner of Kinch's mouth curled up. Then he said, "Come on guys, let's go check upstairs." He headed for the staircase at the other end of the living room, waving at Carter and LeBeau to follow.

Carter set the wadded up shirt and jacket on the floor by the coat stand and went to join LeBeau and Kinch. The three men took their guns out and climbed up the stairs, Kinch leading the way.

When they'd gone, Hogan frowned at Newkirk. "So what _did_ Karl do to you?" he asked, eyeing the lash marks on Newkirk's arms and face, as well as the red rings around his wrists and the wound on his hand.

Newkirk took a big swallow of his water and set his glass down on the table. "He got a bit frisky with his bloody whip, sir," he replied after a moment, picking up the glass again. He brought it to his lips, and then his eyes popped wide. "Oh, and would you believe it, Colonel? Kurt showed up in the barn; turned out he wasn't dead after all. The Army made a ruddy mistake."

Hogan's brow furrowed with confusion. Then a flash of memory came back to him of something Karl had said to him only that morning; something about wishing his father had died instead of Kurt. "I take it he thought Kurt had been killed in action?" he guessed, picking up his own glass.

"Yes, sir," Newkirk nodded, and went on to explain about the telegram, and what Karl had told him, finishing with Kurt's sudden appearance in the barn. "…And then Karl bloody shot him!" he exclaimed. "By mistake, mind you, but you should've seen him, sir, when he realized he'd killed his own brother…." His voice trailed off and he shook his head. "That's when he just up and ran away. Been missin' ever since." He took a drink and set the glass back down.

Hogan drained his own glass and set it on the table. His expression became serious. "Well, I'm just glad he didn't kill you," he said, his voice tight.

"Me too, sir," Newkirk agreed.

"Oh, and Newkirk, sorry about my, uh, reaction when you showed up in the room down there…" Hogan darted his eyes toward the cellar door.

Newkirk cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. "Nothin' to be sorry for, gov'nor. I'd have done the same thing."

A smirk formed on Hogan's face. "No you wouldn't."

Newkirk grinned. Suddenly they heard LeBeau yell from upstairs, "Mon Dieu!" followed by a thud.

They glanced at each other with alarm and Hogan called out loudly, "You fellas need any help up there?"

"Uh, no, we're okay, Colonel," Carter yelled down, "Louis just fainted, is all."

Newkirk shook his head, murmuring more to himself, "Blimey, poor Louis. This wasn't the ruddy mission to bring him on, was it?"

They heard the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs and watched as Carter reached the landing, his arm around LeBeau, supporting him. Kinch followed, holding something in his hand. As they drew near to where Hogan and Newkirk were sitting, the two men seated at the table could see that Kinch was carrying Hogan's leather jacket.

"Where did you find that?" Hogan asked, his brow rising.

"It was in the last bedroom we checked, sir," Kinch replied, "There was a dead body in there – it looked like it's been in there for a long time."

"Yeah, Colonel," Carter said, "He was stretched out on the bed like he was sleeping, and your jacket was lying on top of him."

"Must be Karl's father," Newkirk guessed.

"Any sign of Karl?" asked Hogan, addressing Kinch.

"No, sir, we checked every room."

Hogan frowned. "Well, we're not gonna find him tonight. We might as well head back to camp."

Carter eyed him with concern. "Are you sure you can make it, Colonel?"

"Don't worry about me, Carter, I'll make it." Hogan looked at LeBeau. "Can you make it back?"

"Oh, oui, Mon Colonel, I can make it." LeBeau stood up straight, moving away from Carter's arm that was still wrapped around his back.

"How about you, Newkirk?"

"Oh, yes, sir, I can make it," Newkirk replied, rising to his feet, "And I say, the sooner we get out of this ruddy place, the better."

"I couldn't agree more," Hogan said as he stood up from the table. He wavered for a moment, then his head cleared and he began to walk towards the door. The rest of the men followed, Carter remembering to pick up Newkirk's stained jacket and shirt when he passed by the coat stand.

After filing outside, the chill night air hit Hogan and he shivered. Kinch noticed and handed him his leather jacket, which he quickly donned. Newkirk began shivering as well, considering he was still wearing only a T-shirt on top. Carter set down the bundle he was carrying underneath his arm and shimmied out of his Luftwaffe guard's coat. He gave the coat to Newkirk and leaned down, once again picking up the bunched up shirt and jacket.

Newkirk took the coat and tried to stick his arms through, but the wounds on his arms and back protested, so he gingerly wrapped the coat around his shoulders, trying not to hold it too tight against himself.

As the group took off for Stalag 13, Kinch moved in next to Hogan and asked, "How are we going to get you and Newkirk back in camp, sir?"

Hogan glanced toward him in the darkness. "Newkirk and I will surrender at the front gate. We'll just tell Klink we couldn't figure out which way to go, so we came back here."

"Won't he be suspicious when he sees those marks on Newkirk, sir?"

Hogan thought for a moment. "Well, we can tell him the truth; that we were held hostage by a crazy farmer for two days."

Kinch inwardly shook his head. "You really expect him to believe that, sir?"

* * *

"Hogan, do you really expect me to believe that?" Klink glared at him with irritation. As soon as Hogan and Newkirk had shown up at the front gate, the guards had brought them straight to the Kommandantur.

"It's the truth, sir," Newkirk dared to speak up, "Look what the ruddy bloke did to me," he said, holding up his arms. Before parting ways with the other guys, Newkirk had given Carter back the Luftwaffe coat and now stood in his T-shirt in front of Klink's desk next to Hogan, trying not to shiver.

Klink studied Newkirk's wounds for a moment. "Those could have been caused by catching yourself on the barbed wire when you escaped."

"Oh, come on, sir, barbed wire couldn't have done all that," Hogan argued. "Have you seen his back?" He glanced at Newkirk, who immediately turned around.

Klink's eyes widened briefly; then he frowned. "Those could still be from the barbed wire." He fixed a stern gaze on the American colonel. "Hogan, I find it difficult to believe that any farmer in the vicinity of this camp would do what you're suggesting. I think Corporal Newkirk injured himself when you both escaped, and you came back here because you realized you had nowhere else to go."

"Kommandant, I'm telling you, that farmer was crazy, he –"

"That's enough!" Klink shouted, "Hogan, you and your corporal are hereby sentenced to thirty days in the cooler!"

"The cooler? Sir, that's inhuman! Just look at all those wounds on Newkirk, he'll never survive. He needs medical treatment, not some cold, dank cell –"

"All right, all right!" Klink interrupted, holding up his hand. "You do have a point, Hogan. I am not heartless, you know. I will allow Corporal Newkirk to receive medical attention, but you will both be restricted to the barracks for the next thirty days."

"That is more than generous, sir."

"I should say so, Hogan." Klink pointed his finger at him. "I hope you realize now how useless it is to attempt to escape from Stalag Thirteen. I want your word that you will never try something like this again."

Hogan raised his hand up next to his shoulder, palm out, and pledged, "I promise I will never try to escape from Stalag Thirteen again."

"Very well," Klink replied, sounding somewhat relieved. "I will hold you to that." He flicked his hand in the direction of the door. "Dismissed."

Hogan and Newkirk filed out of Klink's office and headed straight for Barracks Two. When they got inside, Sergeant Wilson, the camp medic, was already there, having been retrieved by LeBeau once he, Carter and Kinch had returned to camp.

"Wilson," Hogan turned to the medic, "I want you to check Newkirk out. You can use my office."

"Sir, I don't think that's necessary –"

"Yes it is, Newkirk. I don't want you getting an infection. We're out of penicillin, remember?"

Newkirk sighed. "Yes, sir." As he headed for Hogan's office, followed by Wilson, LeBeau spoke up.

"What did Klink say, Mon Colonel? Did he believe you?"

"No," Hogan answered, then he grinned, "But at least I talked him out of putting us in the cooler."

Kinch smirked. "You've always had a way with words, Colonel."

"So, what about that Karl fella?" asked Carter, "Isn't anyone going to be looking for him?"

"It doesn't look like it," Hogan replied, crossing his arms. "The only thing we can do is notify the Underground, and let them notify the local authorities. Hopefully someone will catch Karl before he can cause any more trouble. In the meantime, we'll have to be extra cautious if we have any missions come up that take us near that farm."

The men nodded in agreement.

Hogan tossed a glance toward his office. "I don't hear Newkirk grumbling; I think I better go see how it's going in there."

"Sir, you might want to have Wilson check out your wrists, too," said Kinch, pointing at the chafed, red rings encircling Hogan's wrists.

The corner of Hogan's mouth rose. "Yes, mom," he replied. Then he walked over to his office and, after opening the door, stepped inside; closing the door behind him.

* * *

After Newkirk and Hogan were treated by Wilson, who ended up having to endure a fair amount of grumbling from both men, the rest of the day passed uneventfully. By evening all the men were exhausted, and after roll call, they quickly hit their bunks.

Hogan climbed up to his upper bunk and stretched out, glad to be back at camp and, more importantly, relieved that Newkirk was alive and safe. He was still concerned about Karl; there was no telling what the man was capable of; especially now that he had accidentally killed his brother. But, with any luck, Karl would be found and stopped before he could do any more damage.

Hogan closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, determined to put the whole terrifying ordeal that Karl had put him and Newkirk through behind him.

And then the dreams began…


	8. Fallout

A/N: Sorry this chapter took so long; I had too many things to deal with recently. Thanks again for all your reviews, and a big thanks to willwrite4fics for being so supportive.

* * *

Fallout

Hogan tossed and turned, locked deep in a nightmare, visions assaulting his mind; images of Newkirk lying on a table, being disemboweled by Karl. Only in his dream Newkirk was very much alive, the Englishman's eyes wide and filled with terror, his mouth hanging open, horrific screams emanating from him while Karl slowly pulled out the entrails with his bare hands…

Breaking out in a sweat, Hogan tried to scream himself, but all that came out was a soft moan. His hands gripped the blanket as Karl's face appeared right in front of him; then the scene quickly changed to Newkirk's insides being thrown into the room piece by piece, all the while Karl laughing and repeating, _"He's right in front of you!"_

"No!" Hogan's eyes flew open as he managed to get his one word exclamation out. He lay there, breathing heavily, staring up at the ceiling, his heart beating fast from the terror that gripped him from within.

Gradually his body calmed down and the dream slowly faded, although it still lingered in the back of his mind. He closed his eyes, determined not to let one nightmare get the best of him, but by the time he finally started to drift off, it was already time to get up for roll call.

Hogan sighed and jumped down from his top bunk. He got dressed and exited his quarters, attempting to shake off the sense of disquiet that still plagued him. His first glance was toward Newkirk, who was in the middle of one of his 'friendly' arguments with LeBeau, and he inwardly breathed a sigh of relief.

"– Got to stop bein' so squeamish, Louis," Hogan heard Newkirk say as he walked up.

"Can I help it if I have a sensitive soul?" LeBeau replied dramatically, placing his hand on the center of his chest.

Newkirk shook his head. "How did you ever survive bein' in this ruddy war before you ended up here?"

LeBeau shrugged, a half grin forming on his face.

Smirking, Newkirk turned to face the colonel, and Hogan caught sight of the red lash mark on his cheek. It was healing, but would no doubt leave a faint scar – a reminder of what Karl had put him through. Out of nowhere Hogan's anger at Karl and what he had done bubbled up inside him and his jaw tightened.

The smirk left Newkirk's face and he looked at Hogan with concern. "Are you all right, gov'nor?"

Hogan clenched his jaw, fighting down the anger that was threatening to overwhelm him. "I'm fine," he said after a moment, forcing the muscles in his face to relax. "How are you feeling, Newkirk?"

"I'm all right, Colonel," Newkirk replied. "Me back's a mite itchy, but Wilson said to leave it be, so I'm tryin' me best not to scratch."

The door to the barracks flew open, followed by a barrage of, "Raus! Raus! Everybody up for roll call!" Schultz stepped inside, stopping next to Carter while barking loudly once again, "Raus!"

Carter made a face and clapped a hand to the side of his head. "Ow, Schultz, right in my ear!"

Schultz leaned down and said quietly, "If you don't want to hear me shouting, then you can go outside and line up." Then he straightened up and yelled, "Raus! Everyone outside, now!"

The men in the barracks grumbled loudly as they made their way to the door. Schultz followed them out, still shouting at them to line up. Before Hogan could take a step, Kinch sidled up next to him and said quietly, "Got a message from London just before I came up here for roll call, Colonel."

"What is it?" Hogan asked, turning his head to look at Kinch.

"There's a train rolling through tonight near here that's carrying a large supply of ammo. They want us to blow it up."

"Okay, you, LeBeau and Carter should be able to handle it."

"Yes, sir," replied Kinch.

As the two men walked towards the door, Hogan asked quickly, "Any word from the Underground about Karl?"

"No, sir, they haven't contacted us yet."

Hogan frowned. "I hope they find him before he hurts someone else." Then he and Kinch went outside and took their places in line.

Schultz walked down the line, counting the prisoners, and when he reached Hogan and Newkirk he stopped, a grin forming on his face. "Colonel Hogan, it is so good to have you and Newkirk back."

"Thanks, Schultz," Hogan smiled at him, "It's good to _be_ back."

Schultz leaned in and lowered his voice conspiratorially, "I overheard the Kommandant put in a call to the local authorities yesterday. He told them there might be some trouble going on at the Fleischer farm, and they should go take a look."

Hogan's eyebrows shot up, "Really?"

Schultz nodded. "Ja, in fact, he called them shortly after he talked to you."

"Well, how do you like that?" Newkirk said, sounding as amazed as Hogan did, "Ol' Klink believed us after all."

"So did Klink tell you what that farmer did to us?" Hogan asked Schultz.

The big guard clucked his tongue, "Ja, what a terrible thing to do!"

The door to the Kommandantur opened, and Klink walked out. He stopped briefly on the porch to glance around the compound; then climbed down the steps and strode toward the line of prisoners standing in front of Barracks Two. "Report!" he yelled as he approached Schultz.

"Kommandant, I beg to report, all prisoners are present and accounted for," Schultz announced with a crisp salute.

Klink returned the salute and went to stand in front of the senior prisoner of war. "Colonel Hogan, I trust there has been no more talk of escape attempts by you or any of your men."

"No, sir," Hogan replied innocently.

"Good," Klink gave a small nod of his head. "Oh, and Hogan, you might like to know that I did contact the authorities after the story you told me yesterday, and told them to check up on that farmer you claim held you and Corporal Newkirk prisoner for two days."

"You did?" Hogan feigned surprise, "What did they find out, Kommandant?"

Klink shrugged irritably. "How should I know?"

"You mean they haven't called you back yet?" asked Hogan, his surprise becoming real.

"Why would they?" Klink answered. "This is a matter for the local authorities; I have no jurisdiction over the townspeople."

Hogan frowned, his eyes narrowing, "Even if one of those townspeople assaulted two of your prisoners?"

A scowl appeared on Klink's face. "Hogan, I still find it difficult to believe anyone could do what you say that farmer did." Klink held up his hand as Hogan opened his mouth to speak. "Besides, it's out of my hands. If there is anything the local authorities wish me to know, I'm sure they will contact me."

"But—"

"That will be all!" Klink shouted, interrupting him. "Schultz, dismiss the prisoners." With that, he turned and marched back to the Kommandantur.

"Dismissed!" Schultz yelled out, glancing at Hogan with a shrug.

The men began to disperse, turning around and shuffling towards the barracks door. Hogan glared after Klink for a moment or two; then turned to follow them. When he got inside, he caught Kinch's eye and said to him, "I want you to contact the Underground; see if they've heard anything about Karl."

"Yes, sir," replied Kinch before heading for the false-bottom bunk.

Hogan then turned his attention to Carter and LeBeau, who were standing next to Newkirk in front of the double bunk near the door. "There's a train coming through later tonight that London wants us to blow up. I want you two and Kinch to take care of it."

"What about me, sir?" Newkirk asked.

Hogan shook his head. "No, you're still healing from those wounds Karl gave you," he stated firmly.

Newkirk opened his mouth, about to protest, but from the look on Hogan's face he knew he wasn't going to get anywhere. "Yes, sir," he replied instead.

Hogan noticed the dejection on the corporal's face and his expression softened. "Next time, Newkirk," he said, knowing how much the Englishman worried about the others when he couldn't go along on the mission.

"Don't worry, Colonel – LeBeau, Kinch and I can handle it," Carter said, his eyes lighting up. "I've got some explosives all ready to go, boy. Believe me, that train's gonna go 'Kerpow'!" He raised his hands and drew them apart quickly, simulating an explosion.

"Well, just make sure you three blokes don't go 'Kerpow' with it, Andrew," replied Newkirk crossly.

"Hey, I know what I'm doing," Carter countered. "Haven't I always set the timers right, and gotten us out of there in plenty of time?"

The men exchanged glances.

Carter frowned. "Well, haven't I?"

"Yes, you have," Hogan answered him, placing his hand on the Sergeant's shoulder. "That's why I trust you to do it again tonight."

"Don't worry, sir, you can count on me!" Carter beamed, tossing LeBeau and Newkirk a smug grin.

"Good man," Hogan said, dropping his hand. "I've got some things to do in my office," he continued, addressing all of them. "If Kinch gets word from the Underground, I want to be notified right away."

"Yes, sir," they all muttered.

Hogan turned and headed for his quarters, closing the door behind him once he'd entered. He walked over and sat down heavily on the bottom bunk, letting out an exhausted sigh _. I wonder if I could sneak in a nap_ , he thought tiredly, bringing up his hands and rubbing his eyes, _only without a nightmare this time_.

Hogan lowered his hands and stared longingly at the head of the thin mattress where he sat. _Maybe I'll just close my eyes for a few minutes…_ He lay down on his side and brought his feet up, shifting to get a little more comfortable. He shut his eyes, and within minutes, had fallen into a deep sleep.

* * *

" _I brought you something."_

" _No, I don't want it."_

" _You'll eat it and you'll like it!"_

" _No! I don't want it! Where's Newkirk?"_

Hogan moaned at the sight of a plate being set in front of him in his dream; a plate piled high with intestines. He broke out in a sweat just as Karl's smiling face appeared, and the man's words made him suck in his breath;

" _He's right in front of you!"_

"No!" Hogan croaked out, the sound of his own voice chasing the dream away. Just then there was a knock on his door, which brought him the rest of the way to consciousness. He opened his eyes and sat up quickly on the bunk, calling out, "Come in," even as he was tugging on his shirt to try to straighten out the wrinkled material.

The door opened and Kinch stepped inside. "Colonel?" he said, spotting Hogan sitting on the lower bunk, "Is everything all right?"

"Of course it is," Hogan replied, somewhat curtly, "Why wouldn't it be?"

"No reason, sir. I just thought I heard…" Kinch's voice trailed off and he cleared his throat. "I received a message from the Underground concerning Karl's farm, sir."

"Well, it's about time," Hogan muttered, "I was beginning to wonder if they were ever going to get back to us. What's the message, Kinch?"

Looking down at the paper in his hand, Kinch said, "According to the agent who talked to the authorities, when they investigated the farm they found the bodies of the father and one son, and the other son they found alive."

Hogan let out a sigh of relief. "So they finally caught Karl and arrested him."

"The agent didn't say, but I would assume so, sir."

"Yes, I'm sure they did," Hogan nodded. "Well, that's certainly good news."

"Yes it is, Colonel," agreed Kinch.

Switching gears, Hogan asked, "Have you got everything ready for the mission tonight?"

"Yes, sir, Carter's almost done packing up the explosives, and I plotted the coordinates on to the map to find the best route for us to take there and back. It should be a piece of cake," Kinch smiled.

"Don't you mean, 'Pie'?" Hogan smirked.

"No, sir, that's Carter's line," Kinch chuckled, and Hogan joined in.

"All right, just be careful out there; I want to see this mission go off without a hitch," Hogan said, growing serious.

"Don't worry, sir, it will," said Kinch confidently.

"Good," Hogan replied with a small nod of his head.

"Oh, and Louis wanted me to tell you that lunch is almost ready, sir."

Hogan's eyes widened slightly. He glanced down at his wristwatch, surprised to see it was almost noon. "Must have lost track of the time," he muttered, then cleared his throat and looked back up at the Sergeant. "Thanks, Kinch, I'll be out in a few minutes."

"No problem, Colonel." Kinch turned and headed out of the small room, closing the door behind him.

 _Can't believe I slept so long_ , Hogan thought as he stood up and re-tucked his shirt into the top of his pants, _no more naps for me; I can't let that happen again._

Something niggled at the back of his mind as he straightened himself up, a faint memory of another disturbing dream he'd had, but just as he tried to latch onto it, it dispersed like a puff of smoke. He shrugged and shook his head while walking over to the door, then went out into the main barracks to join his men.

* * *

The mission that night did indeed go off without a hitch and LeBeau, Kinch, and Carter made it back safely. Upon being informed of their success, London passed along their thanks for a job well done. By the time everyone crawled into their bunks, it didn't take long for their exhaustion to get the best of them, and they were asleep within minutes.

Hogan also fell asleep quickly, slipping mercifully into a deep, dreamless slumber – that was, until the wee hours of the morning, when he began to toss and turn as another nightmare crept its way in; worse than the previous one.

He was back in the cellar room, sitting on a chair with his wrists bound behind him, Karl shouting at him accusingly;

" _You killed him!"_

" _No, you're wrong!"_

" _It's your fault he's dead, all your fault!"_

" _No!"_

As the scene in his dream changed, beads of sweat broke out on Hogan's forehead, and his respiration quickened. A table appeared before him, the unconscious form of Newkirk lying on top. Karl hovered over Newkirk's motionless body, his face breaking out into a grin. Bringing his arm out from behind him, Karl raised the cleaver he gripped in his hand and brought it down hard, slicing through Newkirk's arm, uttering cheerfully;

" _He's right in front of you!"_

Hogan groaned and clutched the sides of his blanket tightly, his head whipping back and forth as he shouted in his dream;

" _No! Stop it!"_

Karl raised the cleaver and brought it down again and again, tossing the body parts on the floor at Hogan's feet as he went, all the while repeating those terrible six words;

" _He's right in front of you!"_

His terror overtaking him, Hogan pulled at the blanket while in his dream he struggled to free himself from the ropes wrapped around his wrists. But the more he pulled, the tighter they became. As the pile of body parts grew in front of him, he opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out. Then suddenly Karl set the last piece gently on top of the pile. It was Newkirk's head; the vacant eyes gazing lifelessly back at Hogan as he stared at it in abject horror.

A piercing scream came bubbling out of Hogan, wrenching him out of his nightmare and bringing him fully awake within a matter of seconds. His eyes opened wide, filled with terror, and he could feel his heart racing in his chest. As he struggled to get his rapid breathing under control, the door to his quarters flew open and Kinch ran in, followed by Newkirk. The two men stopped next to Hogan's bunk while Carter and LeBeau appeared in the doorway, their concerned expressions mirroring those of their comrades.

Kinch immediately noticed the fear in Hogan's eyes and asked the question that was on all their minds; "Colonel, are you all right?"

Hogan, who had rolled onto his side when the men entered, blinked a few times, purposely taking slow breaths, before answering as calmly as he could, "Yes, I'm fine. It was just a bad dream."

"More like a ruddy nightmare, you mean," Newkirk piped up, "Blimey, sir, you scared us half to death, screamin' like that!"

"That doesn't mean you all have to come running in here!" Hogan snapped, "It was just a bad dream, for Pete's sake!"

"Sorry, sir," Kinch apologized, taking a step back from the bunk. Newkirk did likewise while lowering his gaze.

Hogan let out a big sigh. "Look, I didn't mean to yell," he said, reining in his anger. "I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine, honestly." After the men's expressions brightened a little, he added, "Now, why don't you fellas go back to bed, so we can all get some sleep."

"Yes, sir," replied Kinch; the rest of the men echoing his response. As he turned to leave, he noticed Newkirk was already out the door, along with LeBeau and Carter. He followed them out, shutting the door behind him.

Once they were gone, Hogan rolled onto his back and looked up at the ceiling. _What the hell is wrong with me?_ _Why do I keep having these horrible nightmares?_ A frown formed on his face. _Now that Karl's been caught, that should be the end of it… Right?_

He closed his eyes, determined to go back to sleep, only this time willing himself to make it to morning uninterrupted by bad dreams. He did manage to doze off eventually, but it was a fitful sleep, and he woke up more exhausted than he'd been when he first went to bed. Sighing loudly, he sat up and rubbed his eyes, then jumped off his bunk and began to get dressed for roll call.

 _That better be the last of the nightmares_ , he thought with annoyance as he stuffed his arms into his jacket, _because if this keeps up,_ _I'm never gonna get any sleep!_ He snorted with frustration; then, as he went out to join the men for roll call, a new thought suddenly struck him. _I wonder if Newkirk's having the same problem? After everything that bastard Karl put him through…_

A wave of anger welled up at that, but he forcibly pushed it down, aware that he was becoming irritated much too easily lately. He chalked it up to the lack of sleep, and made a mental note to talk to Newkirk after roll call. He needed to know if the Englishman was suffering from nightmares, too – even if he had no idea how to make them stop.


	9. A Growing Problem

A Growing Problem

Newkirk stood in his spot for morning roll call, listening to Schultz shouting at the prisoners to hurry up. Hogan was the last man out of the barracks, and as the colonel took his place next to him, Newkirk couldn't help noticing the bags under his eyes. _The gov'nor's havin' a rough go of it, ain't he?_ He thought to himself, quickly averting his gaze when Hogan glanced in his direction.

"Newkirk," Hogan said quietly, leaning slightly in his direction.

"Yes, sir?" Newkirk looked back at him.

"I want to talk to you in my office after roll call."

"Sure thing, gov," Newkirk answered, inwardly surprised at Hogan's request. _I wonder if it's got anything to do with that ruddy nightmare he had last night?_

Roll call didn't take long. Once the prisoners were counted, Klink showed up and, after a brief speech about the futility of attempting an escape, returned hurriedly to his office. As the men dispersed, Schultz hinted that the Kommandant was behind on some important paperwork, which explained why he seemed to be in such a hurry.

Upon entering the barracks, Hogan headed directly for his office, Newkirk following close behind. When they got inside, Hogan gestured to the chair next to the desk while taking a seat on the bottom bunk. Newkirk sat down on the chair, facing Hogan, and waited for the colonel to speak.

"Newkirk," Hogan began, shifting uncomfortably, "Have you, uh, been having any trouble sleeping since we've been back? You know, like bad dreams…" He raised his arm and coughed into his fist.

Newkirk could tell Hogan didn't want to be having this conversation, but he was glad the man was getting it out in the open. "Not as much trouble as you've been havin', Colonel," he replied honestly.

"This has nothing to do with me," Hogan said, irritation lacing his voice, "I'm fine. I want to know if _you've_ been having trouble."

"Pardon me for sayin' so, gov'nor, but you don't look all that fine to me." Newkirk's brow furrowed as he asked with concern, "What did that blighter do to you, exactly?"

"Nothing I can't handle," Hogan frowned. "Now for the last time, Newkirk, I want to know if you're having a problem with nightmares."

Hogan was clearly becoming angry, and Newkirk knew he better just answer him. "No, sir, well, I wouldn't say problem, sir, but I have had a few bad dreams." When Hogan continued to stare at him he added, "Nothin' that's keeping me from sleepin', if that's what you're worried about."

Hogan nodded, his face relaxing. "Good. I wouldn't want you losing any sleep over what Karl did to you."

"But, what about you, sir?" Newkirk couldn't help asking. "That nightmare you had last night—"

"Is none of your business," Hogan snapped.

"But sir—"

"That will be all, Newkirk."

The Englishman knew when to quit. "Yes, sir," he sighed and rose from the chair. He walked over to the door and, just as he grabbed the knob, heard Hogan call out his name.

"Newkirk?"

"Yes, sir?" Newkirk replied, turning around. There was an odd expression on Hogan's face, like he was warring with himself, wanting to say something, but not sure how to say it. At last his face fell and he said, "Never mind."

Newkirk gave him a slight nod; then let himself out of the office, closing the door behind him. LeBeau was hovering over the stove, fiddling with the coffee pot, while Kinch and Carter were sitting at the table, looking at him expectantly. He stepped over to the table and sat down opposite the two sergeants.

"Well?" Carter was the first to open his mouth.

Newkirk frowned. "Well, what?"

"What did the colonel want to talk to you about?"

"The weather," Newkirk rolled his eyes. "What do you think, Andrew?"

LeBeau set the coffee pot on the stove and came over, plopping down next to Newkirk. "Was it about that horrible dream he had last night?"

"Not exactly," Newkirk replied. "He wanted to know if I've been havin' nightmares since we got back from that ruddy farm."

LeBeau eyed him with concern. "Have you, mon ami?"

"Maybe a few," Newkirk admitted, "Nothin' that would make me wake up screamin', though."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Carter said, "There's been at least three times I heard you moaning in your sleep. And one time you were tossing and turning so bad, I thought you were going to roll off the bunk!"

"What?" Newkirk's eyes widened, "I never—"

"Yes, you did," Kinch cut in, "I could hear you from my own bunk."

"What were you dreaming about?" Carter asked as he rested his elbows on the table and propped his chin up with his fists.

Newkirk narrowed his eyes, "None of your business, Andrew."

"Oh, come on, tell us," LeBeau prodded, "It might make them go away if you do."

"Louis's right," Kinch said, "My kid sister used to have nightmares all the time when she was nine years old. After we finally got her to tell us what they were about, she stopped having them."

"What were they about?" Carter asked.

The corner of Kinch's mouth rose. "Ever see the movie, 'Frankenstein?'"

Newkirk and Carter nodded their heads.

"Well, when it came to town I wanted to go see it, but I got stuck babysitting Eloise. So I took her with me and snuck us both in…"

"You didn't," Carter's jaw dropped.

Kinch smiled. "Yeah, I did, and when she told my parents that she'd been dreaming about the Frankenstein monster chasing her, I got in a lot of trouble."

Newkirk chuckled. "Sounds like somethin' I'd have done, mate. Though Mavis would've tattled on me straight away."

"You still haven't told us what you've been dreaming about," LeBeau reminded Newkirk, nudging him with his elbow.

Newkirk's face grew serious. "Not much to tell, really. Mostly it's Karl leaving me in that ruddy barn to rot, or threatening to shoot the Colonel."

"He really put you through a lot, didn't he?" Carter remarked quietly.

Newkirk nodded. "But what did he do to the gov'nor? That's what I want to know. What's got him bloody waking up screamin' in the middle of the night?"

"Maybe you should ask him." LeBeau suggested.

"I tried, Louis, he wouldn't ruddy talk to me."

"What about you, Kinch?" LeBeau asked the sergeant, "He might be more willing to tell you."

Kinch shrugged his shoulders. "I can try, but you know how stubborn he is."

"Oui," agreed LeBeau.

"Well, all I know is, he'd better bleedin' talk to one of us soon, or he'll end up crackers from not gettin' any sleep."

"Yeah," Kinch leaned in slightly, "I don't think he got much sleep the night before, either. Yesterday when I went in with that message from the Underground about Karl's farm, I'm pretty sure I woke him up from a nap." He leaned in further and lowered his voice to almost a whisper, causing the other three men to lean forward as well. "And right before I knocked, I could swear I heard him call out, like he was having a nightmare."

"Blimey, he's got 'em bad," Newkirk shook his head as he leaned back. "I bloody hope you can get him talking, mate."

"I'll do my best," replied Kinch. He glanced down at his watch and stood up from the table. "And now if you gents will excuse me, I have to go relieve Baker at the radio." He turned and headed for the false-bottom bunk, quickly disappearing down into the tunnel.

"I should finish making the coffee," LeBeau said, rising from his seat. He stepped over to the stove and grabbed the coffee pot, then headed over to the sink to fill it with water.

Shifting to get more comfortable, Carter looked across the table and said, "Looks like it's just me and you, Newkirk."

"Just my luck," Newkirk murmured.

"Hey, now that you told us about your nightmares, I guess that means you won't be having 'em anymore."

Newkirk shrugged. "I hope you're right, mate." He turned his head, glancing at the door to Hogan's quarters. "Now if we could just get the colonel to stop havin' 'em…" He looked back at Carter who was nodding confidently.

"We will – I'm sure of it."

Newkirk let out a sigh. "I hope you're right about that, too."

* * *

After Newkirk left his office, Hogan stood up and began pacing across the floor of the small room. He felt angry and frustrated; mostly at himself. He hadn't meant to snap at Newkirk like that, but the Englishman wouldn't stop asking him about his own nightmares _. It's none of his business!_ Hogan thought as he reached the corner near the window and turned around. _Besides, how can I tell him what I'm dreaming about? Karl chopping him up into pieces…_ He grimaced and did an about face at the door. _If he's not having horrible nightmares already, he will be if I tell him about mine!_

Hogan paced a few minutes longer; then, growing tired, he stopped just shy of the far wall and walked over to his double bunk instead. With a heavy sigh he plopped down on the lower one and, raising his hand, closed his eyes and rubbed his thumb and index finger across his eyelids, bringing his fingers together until they were pinching the bridge of his nose. He felt bad about not saying anything to Newkirk before the corporal had left his quarters. He'd wanted to apologize for being so short with him, but in the end he couldn't seem to find the words.

He dropped his hand onto his lap and stared out into the room. _What's the matter with me? Why is everything making me so angry?_ He thought at first it might be the lack of sleep, and glanced wistfully toward the head of the bunk he was sitting on. _No, no more naps._ He shook his head. _I can't risk the guys catching me._ Of course, no rest meant he'd just have to be tired for the remainder of the day, which wasn't going to do anything to improve his mood.

 _This is nuts!_ Hogan's brow creased in thought, _I've been tired before; hell, it's a wonder we get any sleep around here at all sometimes, and I've never been this irritable before. What is it? Is it the nightmares?_

Logically that made sense to him, but he was darned if he knew how to make them stop. He thought fleetingly of talking to Kinch, but he didn't want to burden his second in command with a description of his dreams, especially since he'd have to go on to explain what Karl did to him so Kinch would understand why he was having the dreams in the first place.

That was something he didn't want anyone to know.

Besides, he couldn't risk the content of his nightmares getting back to Newkirk – not that he didn't trust Kinch completely, but it had been his experience that no matter how well anyone tried to keep a secret in the barracks, things had a way of coming out eventually.

No, best to keep quiet about it and hope the nightmares would go away on their own.

Hogan was still sitting there, trying to relax his nerves when there came a knock on his door. "Come in," he called out.

The door opened and LeBeau took a few steps inside, carrying something in his hand. "Mon Colonel, I thought you might like some coffee, it's fresh." He held the cup out towards Hogan.

Hogan could see the steam rising from it, and for a split second LeBeau disappeared; morphing into Karl, who stood there with a twisted grin on his face while holding a bowl of his 'sick idea of a joke' soup out for him.

The color drained from Hogan's face and he involuntarily sucked in his breath. His heart started beating fast, and suddenly he needed out of that room, away from that vision, away from the four walls that felt like they were closing in on him.

At the look on Hogan's face, LeBeau immediately became concerned. "Are you all right, sir?"

It took every ounce of self-control for Hogan to nod. "I'm fine," he squeaked out, "I just need to get some air." He stood up and hurried to the door, brushing past a thoroughly confused Frenchman and out into the barracks proper. Several heads turned to look at him as he strode quickly to the main door and pulled it open.

But when Hogan stepped outside, he'd barely made it a few feet from the building before Schultz ran over, shouting, "Nein, nein, Colonel Hogan, halt!"

"What, Schultz?" Hogan asked with more annoyance than he had intended.

"Colonel Hogan, you cannot be outside the barracks," Schultz stated firmly.

Hogan eyed him crossly. "Why not?"

"Because you are still restricted to the barracks for twenty-eight more days," Schultz frowned. "Don't tell me you forgot the Kommandant's orders?"

"Aw, c'mon, Schultz," Hogan switched to the most sincere, pleading expression he could muster, "I'm sure Colonel Klink wouldn't mind if I just hung out here for a few minutes. Look, I'll even sit over there," he gestured to the bench behind him aligning the barracks wall, "So I won't be in your way." He took a few steps back and plopped down on the bench. "See?"

Growing frustrated, Schultz exhaled forcefully. "Colonel Hogan, I know you. You are up to some monkey business. Get back inside the barracks right now!" He raised his arm and pointed to the door.

"Just let me have a few more minutes—"

"Nein!" Schultz shook his head. "You have to go back to your barracks. If the Kommandant sees you sitting out here…"

"Schultz!"

Schultz's mouth snapped shut at the sound of his name being shouted from the other side of the compound. Already knowing who it was coming from, he turned around and looked toward the Kommandantur, a knot forming in his gut.

Klink stood on the porch just outside his office, a scowl visible on his face even from where Schultz was standing. The Kommandant climbed down the stairs and marched over to where Hogan and Schultz were, stopping next to the big guard. "What's going on here?" he shouted, glaring at the American officer. "Colonel Hogan, why are you outside your barracks?"

"I just needed some fresh air, sir," replied Hogan, trying to keep his tone nonchalant, "Have you ever shared a building with dozens of men? Why, the smell alone—"

"Hogan!" Klink shook his fist at him. "I will not stand for this insolence! You will return to your barracks this instant, or I will have you thrown in the cooler for the remainder of your sentence!"

Hogan's expression darkened. "Is that how you treat a prisoner who's been tortured at the hands of one of your own countrymen?"

Eyeing Hogan with exasperation, Klink lowered his arm. "This again? Hogan, I already told you I contacted the authorities—"

"Yes, you did," Hogan interrupted, rising to his feet, "And what I want to know is, why? Why did you call them, when you don't even believe what I told you happened?"

Caught off guard, Klink's eyes widened briefly before he fixed the American with a stern gaze. "I never said I didn't believe you, I said I found it hard to believe. Besides," he continued when Hogan's cold stare remained unchanged, "I heard from the authorities just a few minutes ago. They confirmed your story about Allied prisoners being held hostage at the farm, and they also found the bodies of two family members – the father, I believe, and one of his sons."

"Really?" It was Hogan's turn to be surprised; not so much from the news itself – he already knew about it from the Underground – but to hear it from Klink's own mouth, not to mention the fact that the Kommandant finally believed him, was something of a shock. "Did they say what they did with Karl, the one who tortured Newkirk and me?"

"No, they didn't," answered Klink, "But if Karl is the one who held you captive, I'm sure they took him into custody."

Relief washed over Hogan; hearing the news from Klink just reaffirmed what the Underground agent had told them. Still not wanting to return to the barracks; however, he decided to press his luck. "Now that you know I was telling you the truth, sir, how about dropping the sentence restricting me and Newkirk to the barracks?"

"Your sentence has nothing to do with what happened to you and Corporal Newkirk at that farm," Klink said, frowning, "It was given to you for attempting to escape."

"But, sir, haven't we been through enough?"

"I'm sorry, Hogan, the restriction stands. Unless you would like to serve out the remainder of your sentence in the cooler?"

"No, no, the barracks is fine," Hogan quickly replied.

"Very well," Klink gestured to the door, "I suggest you return inside immediately, before I change my mind."

"Yes, sir." Hogan saluted, waiting for Klink to dismiss him with a salute of his own before he turned and walked slowly over to the barracks door. As he was about to enter, Klink called out to him.

Oh, and Colonel Hogan?"

Hogan swiveled his head to look at Klink. "Yes, Kommandant?"

"I'm sorry for what you and Corporal Newkirk went through."

"Thank you, sir," Hogan replied with a small nod of his head, surprised at the sincerity in Klink's voice. He pushed open the door and went in, trying to ignore the surreptitious glances he was receiving from the men as he walked over and sat down at the table. Newkirk was sitting opposite him, and the Englishman had his head down, concentrating on the deck of cards he was shuffling in his hands. Carter sat on his bunk behind Hogan, wringing his hands and looking slightly guilty – no doubt he'd been peeking out the door the whole time and had had to scramble over to his bunk just before Hogan entered.

LeBeau, who was standing near the stove, was the first to speak up. "Feeling better, Mon Colonel?" he asked, trying to keep his voice casual, although the underlying concern filtering through was unmistakable.

"Yes, LeBeau, thank you," Hogan answered, determined to sound like his old self, "In fact, I'll take that coffee now."

"Oh, Oui, Colonel!" LeBeau's eyes lit up as he hurried into Hogan's quarters. He came back out carrying the coffee cup and set it down in front of Hogan. "I wasn't sure when you'd return, sir, so I left it in there for you," he cocked his head in the direction of the office. "If it's too cold, I can heat it up."

"Thanks, LeBeau, it's fine." Hogan took a sip of the now lukewarm liquid.

"So, what were you and Klink talking about, sir?" Carter asked, rising up and crossing the distance between his bunk and the table before plopping down on the bench next to Hogan.

"Carter!" Newkirk snorted disgustedly, "Did it ever occur to you that the colonel might not like the idea of you bloody spyin' on him?"

"It's all right," Hogan held up his hand. "Apparently Klink got a call from the authorities this morning, and they told him the same thing they told the Underground agent."

"So it's true, then, sir," said Newkirk, "Karl's been caught, and we can put this whole bloody mess behind us."

Hogan nodded. "I'm for that, Newkirk."

The false-bottom bunk banged up and Kinch climbed out, hurrying over when he saw Hogan sitting at the table. "Sir, a call came through on the switchboard a little while ago. It was the local authorities calling Klink about Karl's farm—"

"I already know about it," Hogan interrupted, "Klink told me a few minutes ago."

"Oh?" Kinch arched an eyebrow, his expression clearly saying, _what did I miss?_

"Yeah, after the colonel went outside, Klink came out of his office and walked over and started talking to him and—"

"You can fill him in later, Carter," Hogan cut him off and turned his attention back to Kinch. "Anything else?"

"Yes, sir," Kinch pulled out a small piece of paper from his jacket pocket. "Got a message from London; there's going to be a bombing raid just north of here later this evening, and they want us to be on the lookout for downed flyers. They're expecting a lot of flak from the German anti-aircraft guns."

"Okay, you, Carter, LeBeau, and Olsen go out tonight and pick up as many as you can find."

"Colonel, I'd like to go with 'em," Newkirk volunteered.

Hogan shook his head. "No, I think you need a little more time before you're ready to go out on missions again."

"I'm ready now, sir," Newkirk pushed, his voice filling with determination. "'Sides, I know those woods like the back of me hand. I can help—"

"I said no!" Hogan shouted angrily, rising from the table, "And that's an order!" He strode briskly to his office and shut the door hard behind him, hardly noticing when his feet kept moving as he fell into the familiar trek along the well-worn floor, pacing the room like a caged animal.

 _Dammit, what's wrong with me?_ was Hogan's first thought as he rounded the corner and retraced his steps back to the other side of the room. _This is ridiculous…_ _I've got to get a hold of myself!_ He reached the far wall and turned around. _Why is Newkirk making me so angry?_

But it wasn't Newkirk making him angry, was it? It was something else, something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

Hogan kept pacing, thinking furiously. Deep down he knew he was being completely irrational, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. He was fully aware that his English corporal was healed enough to go out on missions, so why was the mere thought of Newkirk leaving camp sending him into a rage?

One of the more gruesome images from his latest nightmare flashed through his mind, and he stopped dead in his tracks as the realization suddenly hit him. It wasn't anger fueling his decision to deny Newkirk's request, it was fear – an overwhelming, pervasive sense of terror that had taken up residence in his gut, convincing him that something horrific would happen to Newkirk if he let him leave camp.

Feeling suddenly drained, Hogan sat down on the chair he was standing next to and plopped his elbows on his desk. He buried his face in his hands and let out a small groan. _Great! What the hell do I do now?_


End file.
